Я - Аваллон. Farblos

Farblos (monochrome)

        I woke up from a terrible bout of headache. The ceiling above shuddered and tilted aside. I sat on my bed. It was 12:46 by my watch: I’d slept for about two hours. I had to brace myself and go. I grabbed the empty packages of demulcent pills and went to have a shower. Strange enough, but my head was still aching – why?
Cold water streams are trickling down my temples. Why people are so cruel? Why do they kill each other? I look in the mirror – the reflection shows bloodshot eyes speckled with dark-red vessels.
Blood everywhere – on the walls… on the floor… under my hands, desperately trying to constrict the throbbing artery on his neck… “Look at me! Look at me!!!”. Screams and shouts… My workmate pressing that mongrel to the wall… Why haven’t you noticed the knife? Why was I late? That’s no matter, as he’d lost a lot of blood and had to remain conscious. “Look at me! Stay with me!’ The whole scene quivers and dims away.
I’m back to the bathroom again. I have to forget it, just go through it. That’s my job, haven’t I seen enough to get accustomed? My hands are clean now, but… there’s blood on them…
The twinkling light bulb of the public lavatory, red streams of water carrying the last traces of the other person’s pain away. The world around turns pale.
I’m walking through the swaying mob in the city centre. The head wind is cooling off my body, throwing my coat open and casting handfuls of small snowflakes into my face.

Diese Welt (This word) is monochrome, and he, der sagt (who says) that the whole life has a shade of grey, is wrong. These streets, buildings, feces and die Luft (the air) don’t even have the trace of Grau (grey), they’ve turned colorless wie die alten Bilder (like the old paintings). The point is not that the time is flying ins Nichts (nowhere), not that you’ve lost the freshness of vision or you’ve never been capable of seeing, what the world is – the world is really that dim and farblos (monochrome).
The taste is also often dull and commonplace… you’re fed up with it: sweet, bitter, sour. Cold wind, the teeth are crunching with sand, die Gedanken haben den Geschmack von Grie;brei (the thoughts have the taste of porridge).
The air smells of disease, imprisonment and cold.
There come sounds of headache.
Gef;hle… wie selten zeigen sie sich rein (feeling… pure, unmixed feelings are so rare)… Happiness always has the shade of bitterness, Liebe (love) – the shade of hesitation, pleasure – the shade of Angst (fear). Even the dreams are often dim, without any taste or smell, lautloss (silent), expressing commonplace feelings…
This winter will be hard… and the last one… for my heart. All the more often I have a feeling that the old healed wounds on my body are opening at once, blood begins to stream upon my skin, and cold is crawling in through these breaches – it’s digging deeper and deeper into my flesh, like a mite. I am frozen though from within.
Indifference leaves no room for feelings. I could be glad for it had taken away my Weh (pain) and Leid (suffering), but it has also robbed me of joy. Armes, armes Herz (poor, poor hart), it’s dashing around the ice cage, trying to make itself  warm, but no… Keine Rettung (No escape)! Die Eisklauen der K;lte kommen heran (the ice paws of Cold are approaching).

I enter the rehearsal room; hug the drummer, who is busy with his drumkit. I have neither the strength, nor the wish for talking. Let my guitar and our Voice speak for me. I take a piece of paper folded in four from my pocket and put it on the table. I wrote this song in the morning. Voice picks up the paper and reads out aloud:

Our God is dead;
And we proclaim the doomsday
In the end…