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Postkarte aus Tarragona	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1740 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Postkarte aus Tarragona (3/9)
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Surprise
Disclaimer: Never happened
Beta: flowers, candies and thank yous go to hannelore_k
Author's note: mentions of songs by Tool, Emigrate, Nine Inch Nails, John Lennon, Puscifer, U2, Saul Williams, Chris Isaak and Deftones.

Making it easy to murder your sweet memory...

I walked toward the wired fence surrounding the ancient amphitheater. The floor of it, the ground had been dug up to reveal some tunnels beneath. I craved to go there and sit on one of those ancient stone benches.

I always thought of touching one of those stones and feeling thousands of years under my finger tips. Doing so made me feel grand, on the top of the 3,000 years high mountain, yet so insignificant, a small particle of sand, a speck of dust on one of the yellowed by time rocks. A particle dislocated by the rain.

I am the man standing on the sea shore, my palm stretched out open while the furious wind blows the sand in my hand. We're here now, then we're gone.

But I always had my fixed point in the Universe – the music. My music. It kept me going. It gave me a reason to live. I realized how important it is to have one as you feel like floating endlessly, drowning as you fight your own demons, as you see yourself shoved, kicked, abused and thrown all over by your own fate. The world spins around itself and around the Sun and you tumble along with it. You need something steady to hang onto.

It wasn't the fame. It wasn't the money. But they didn't understand. I, myself, didn't understand it.

I sold your soul...

I saw few people on the street as I was walking to that road I could see coiling over a rocky hill. Beside it there were more buildings; old, white and yellow, bright colors, pink, burnt sienna, glittering in the Sun under the blue, endless blue sky.

I saw those people, but I didn't dare to go to them. They were talking this language that was unknown to me, very fast, like spoken on the tips of their lips and tongues. It wasn't like I heard whole phrases, it was more like an impression. Words carried by the breeze to my ears. Words mixed with specks of sand.

Where do all the words go once spoken? We know, or at least think we know, where they end up when we write them. But what happens to the spoken words? Is there a land, a place or an island where they retreat, taken by the breeze and left there? Does it happen the same with the songs once sung?

What if some of those words, phrases and sentences want to escape that island and come back to us humans? Is this what memories are? What if some mistake the human? Are they those voices some hear?

I kept walking until I got into a more populated area and I saw a white painted building that made me think of a railway station, placed between the road and the railway tracks, and further, the sea.

I went to the station's building and entered it. People everywhere, walking, waiting, with their luggage, posters, light signs, and the words, voices, discussions, all swirling around me as I stood there motionless. I looked at the clean, shiny floor reflecting the walls, the people, the signs. I knew that language. I knew that country.

I still needed to find the name of the town.

I told you so...

Blue with white.

The sign glittering in the quiet midday sun.

Why this particular place?

Leave your corpse behind...

It all started with a thought. The word that exists in the beginning. First, you need the word, the concept. The idea.

My idea was crazy. It amused me. It started with “What if...?” Or was it “How would it be if...?”

What if Christoph would have a stalker?

Well... not a stalker, exactly, but... And I laughed. Sometimes I get silly ideas and I laugh.

I didn't want to scare him. I only had this desire of him knowing of me, somehow. I couldn't restrain it, the way I did with all the other things; this one was like a little worm chewing my heart, giving me such a restlessness. He wouldn’t have to know it was me, but I wanted to reach him on a different level. Something for only the two of us, our little secret, kept between ourselves and away from the others. Because he never knew it was me, because it was never my handwriting on them. And they wouldn't be sent from the same location he and I would be at the moment.

But it was something that would tie only him and I, like Till and I sharing the same woman.

And now I see what I never saw before...

Life and Universe have an awkward way to connect things. If you ask me, everything is actually connected in this world. And the knots are even tighter than we'd dream.

What the fuck was I supposed to do there? An ocean away from home, in a strange town where I knew no one, in a country I didn't speak the language... How the hell did I end up there anyway?

I had some money, and my drivers license. And that was all. My thoughts were already weaving plans for me to return home. I could have called one of the guys, they would have helped me. I couldn't do much with the money I had; besides they were US dollars. A bank!

What happened to my credit cards?

I asked, when I finally found someone to understand and speak English there, and they told me I could find a bank in town. The closest was the old town. And they showed me the road. At one point it would split, a street taking me to the town.

So I headed toward the old town...

I wanted a new place, something to really be suitable for a new start. The Old World sometimes felt overwhelming, too crowded, not necessarily with people, but with remnants of all those thousands of years – shadows from the past. All those that have been, and with all that they've been through, the happenings in their lives. Sometimes I could physically feel that pressure, that crowding.

Spiders crawling through your open wounds...

He said I was only running away from myself. And he laughed. But, he added, what a shame, I was to carry myself with me wherever I might go. In that second I hated him, oh, how I hated him!

I have many such seconds, collected into my memory like into this wooden casket. Maybe he really believed I got involved with her just to spite him or something. Did he hate me for it?

Oh, I know he can hate! He can hate so strong – his hate is so thick, a boa constrictor that follows you silently through the jungle, huge in size, disguised so well in the canopy that when you least expect it, it would sneak up on you, coil it's massive, cold, stodgy and heavy body around you and choke you slowly, watching you struggling and gasping for air, and making it as painful as possible. And when you think it cannot get worse than that, it would find a way to make it even worse. It might not do anything at the moment, but it has its hate. And when it sniffs that you're in the wrong position, it will strike.

He trained himself not to consume himself with grudges – revenge is a dish best served cold.

Was I thinking that I was having him when I was having the woman he had? Or were we still like brothers, sharing everything, even the mother of our daughters?

I can see the resolution... I do!

But Christoph was something we couldn't share!

I looked at the old walls, reflecting white in the bright sun light, under the blue Spanish sky. Here, the ghosts and the shadows of the Old World seemed not to exist; maybe they were gone, haunting the streets of the old, wintry cold Berlin.

One day, not long ago – my refuge in the New World, my house, my old, former firemen depot. I was so wrapped up in thoughts, in my music, my work. It took me a while to realize I had stopped for a while already. Then I remembered what I was so focused upon, as I was staring into the distance, while the speakers were buzzing quietly – the volts of electricity running through the wires.

It was that image, something so sudden, the streets of my old Berlin, washed by rain. One of those heavy gray autumn days, with thick, cold and gray rain. Everything gets this dark, yet glittering tint. Buildings shut their doors and windows, humans and ghosts hide, trees bend, naked branches under the lashing whips of the freezing wind – they don't even have the cover of their leaves. This was the image I saw. And there I saw her – totally different of those spectra. She was wearing a short, bright purple summer dress, short and wet with the rain, like a second skin. The harsh wind was blowing the skirt over those exposed, tanned legs. She also had this bright orange umbrella that she was struggling to keep from being snatched by the wind from her wet hands.

No one else on the street seemed to notice her – such a strange apparition. She was there just for a glimpse. I turned my head, something caught my attention; then, when I looked back, I didn't even move, just threw a fleeting look. The bright purple with orange and the tanned, long silky legs were gone.

My imagination!

I'm lost in you, I'm lost in crowds…

I wouldn't have been surprised to see her appearing from a corner, in the distance, to cross the street absent mindedly, as always. But no, she belonged only to Berlin.

Was I running away from that city? Or from that ghost whose existence I realized one day... The ghost of a country that ceased to exist. I was born in a country that doesn't exist anymore. Usually it's people that die, but for your country to die before you do, how strange is that?

No, here in this old part of this town, with streets not wider than one and a half meters, houses that have seen centuries, it was all too ancient even for her. I wanted to lose my track in this place. I would have turned back into one of those specks of dust, stopped in the shadow of a two story wall. The colors made them look so new! The colors made them shine in the sun. It was such summery weather!

His smile always gave me this sense of the sun starting to shine in an afternoon, after a heavy, thick cold rain that started at midnight and lasted all day. It gave me a sense of calm, like that purple and orange apparition. And his blue eyes, like this endless blue Spanish sky I was wandering under at the moment, would become just as bright. Shine on, benevolent sun!

I didn't notice him at first; I didn't notice all that in him first. So, I didn't pay much attention when Till told me. He was just one of the many fucks-for-one-night-while-pretending-to-be-drunk of Till's, at the moment. But then, with each day, I was staring a bit longer at him, looking for what Till was seeing in him. That curly, almost blondish hair? His childish allure, with his skinny frame and freckled face? And, with each second added to those moments that I was staring at him, I was finding myself drawn into that blueness.

One day I just knew it – I wanted him! My soul received that kick and fell onto its knees, grunting in pain. Till was like my brother and I was craving for something that was his.

Right in two...

“You couldn't have him, so you took her.”

“You're talking shit,” I muttered. I didn't even have the strength to get angry any longer.

“What are you, his dog? Picking the remains from his meals? Christoph, her...”

My thoughts were talking shit. They were yelling at me, enraged, and I was yelling back at them to shut up.

Clench your jaw, don't let even a groan escape, move over!

All in my head. It is all in my head always! And I shut it all into this statue that's me, behind this face. There's a war, but I smile. If we didn’t have faces, everyone would be able to see right into our minds, to read our thoughts.

Did I want him just for himself, for his beauty, for that thought that with him I would be finally at peace, or did I want him because Till had him as well?

Sometimes, gestures or things he'd say made me think he knew, or at least he was suspecting. Sometimes I was thinking it was good that he knew or suspected. Other times I felt like running away and hiding just for thinking that. Why, because he had already been with Till?

Sometimes it hurt so bad to even know he was in the same room with me; other times, when he was away, I was craving for the sight of him.

Then, one winter day, I looked down from the window of that building I was in at the moment in Berlin, to the street – cold, gray, it was getting ready to snow. And there she was – the bright purple with orange, flickering as she walked, like a butterfly battling its wings.

This town was choking me with all its presences, energies and appearances.

To be continued...
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Postkarte aus Tarragona