Abitur, Alcoholic Apathy

It's often never that obvious when a new phase of your life begins. It comes slowly, and you're only really aware of it when you look back and realise you don't dream about being sixteen anymore.
Over a week ago I completed the written part of the final examinations in Germany. That period of life before, where every thought you had somehow concluded with the massiveness of the approaching exams, seems like long enough ago now to write about it with a sense of distance.
During that time, nothing felt right if it did not in some way contribute to preparing for three four-hour long exams, where one was expected to vomit words and numbers with brilliant clarity in order to prove oneself worthy of higher education.
Everything that was not related to that felt secondary; emptying the dishwasher for example felt like an impossible task, existing perhaps only in an attempt to distract you from the almost grotesque determination one had developed in the hopes of achieving results to be proud of.
Suddenly, we were sitting in classrooms writing.
And suddenly time was up.
And suddenly we handed in stacks of paper filled with ink that meant 'education'-
And suddenly it was over and I experienced the most intense feeling of relief I could have imagined.

What ensued of course was a group of adolescents soaking up the glorious atmosphere and also, generous amounts of toxic beverages.
Whilst initially rewarding and enjoyable, after a week I felt I had had enough and found myself suddenly alone with thoughts I had previously put to one side in favour of Faust, Woyzeck, multiculturalism in Great Britain and exponential functions.

In my last entry I already touched on the topic of night life, but it seems only presently relevant to explore further the concept of drink and dark smokey rooms where words mean little and accentuated curves mean much more.
Alcohol loosens you up. As do other substances. Suddenly, everyone is approachable, you don't think twice about saying exactly what's on your mind and a feeling spreads through your limbs as though they have just been untied. But you couldn't tie your laces. And after enough alcohol, you can't tie your words together properly anymore either.
Being reasonably sober within a group of aqquaintances under the influence is comparable maybe to mediocre music at a band's concert who you vaguely appreciate. It's doable, it could be fun, but there is something missing and you know you are not helping yourself, nor achieving much, by being there.

A couple of nights ago, I found myself at a cafe cross club I had never been to before, joining a queue of nonchalant faced boys dressed in slouchy beanies, casual leg-hugging jeans, and every variation of Nike or New Balance sneakers known to man.
The amount of alcohol coursing through my body was next to none and as we stood in the freezing cold, I longed to be inside, or be at home.
Paying five euros entry allowed you to enjoy the fabulous interior of the front parlour, complete with stained white walls and a bare mattress, embellished with three young individuals in black hoodies, sharing a bottle of what appeared to be wine.
Further along, past the group I would like to call the mattress lovers, was a cramped darkened room, projecting electronic tunes, which probably took hours to make and only seconds to forget.
Most of the people milling about were too cool to smile and I felt my mouth forming a tight line too as I suddenly realised I would prefer to be outside in the freezing cold again.
I have come to the conclusion, after numerous discussions with myself and those around me, that places like these are not bearable if you begin to think about them. If you begin to dissect why you are there, whether it is defined as pleasurable to people your age, whether this is really one of life's finer moments etcetera, you simply will not be able to enjoy it.
It seems simple, but my incapability to not think about the situation resulted in me deciding to leave early, albeit with little regret.
And yet it remains part of you, as even as I type, a circular ink stain on my right hand reminds me of the mattress lovers and intoxicated individuals whose thoughts I would love to hear.


  1. I like the style of your blog a lot!
    gotta come here more often.