Not different to myself.

‘I was always in search of another life. I was always somehow…I don’t know…somehow different.’

‘Different to whom?’

‘In any event, different to the others. Not different to myself. Yet sometimes I can be wholly different to myself.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes, of course. No. Somehow I’m often different than I…’

‘We’re all different to ourselves. We’re many in one. Many inside us. The many constitute the singlular whole. This is why we’re superior to the others. If only they would try, try to think around the next corner, they’d see that we’re already countless corners ahead of them, streets ahead. Many see more, see differently.’

‘As a child, I desperately wanted to get away from here. From the world. From this life. Away from myself. Escape. But always the thought, where to? I was sure I didn’t belong here. I waited in vain. Nothing happened. Despair and rage alternated until eventually I became resigned. Nobody came. Nobody was searching for me. Not once did they want me there; whatever or wherever there is.’

‘Are you certain of that? Look around you, you’re already there. You are precisely there.’

‘At times, I really think it’s only all in my head.’

‘Only? Just because …



S. Kerling meets E. A. Poe (Meeting I – Excerpt from ‘Only a game’ )

Author: Svea Kerling

Translated by  Jürgen Olschewski



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