logbook, berlin in august
Every time I get home from a trip to Berlin, I fall into a gravel of longing, nostalgia, envy and lust for a twist. Others may hate busy streets and crowds and groups everywhere, feeling quite swamped and scrambled, but I find comfort in knowing something is always happening and everyone else is feeling the same rush as me. Or the same down as me. Or are just as lost.
I tend to romanticise places I don’t live in and take those cities for granted that I already know. It’s one of the worse parts about myself in my opinion but I’ve always thought I’m such a yearning being. I could feel completely satisfied and I would still find something to long for.
My sister and I walked the lively, vibrant streets, seeing the lights reflected in the wet pavement of yesterday afternoon. Somewhere, patterns are projected on big buildings in Mitte and people are synced to music in some park. Art is everywhere, visible on city walls and re-purposed urban spaces.
What is both surprising and typical about myself is that I either avoid or gravitate towards excitement. I haven’t figured out what makes the cut and what doesn’t but this gritty, enigmatic city doesn’t stir any odds for me despite knowing that with every capital city comes a very ugly side.
I know that Berlin is touted as a "clubbing" capital of Europe but I think Berlin has a scene for everyone. With all big cities with a vast majority of people differing from each other, I appreciate a place where everyone can be whoever they want to be, love who they want to love, and the beauty about that is that no one will bat an eye.
Do I like it because I’m used to being invisible or because I want to hide in anonymity, to be known in a fleet, passing by like a day fly? Either way, I’m sat on public transportation and I’m quiet. Quietly watching, and smiling.