Uncensored: Wasser Majestät

A Note Before Reading This piece was originally written in 2016 in German, during a later relationship that echoed the emotional turbulence I had once explored years earlier when writing Class Reunion (A Chapter of Rebelleheart).

Though the context was different, the undercurrents were strikingly familiar—raw inner chaos, suppressed emotion, and the helpless beauty of love meeting its own shadows.

What had first emerged in 2014, while I was with Daniel, returned with new textures and insight—proving, again, that our inner landscapes are less linear than we believe. This is not a repetition, but a remembering.

There is a kind of silence that wraps around you like a soft cocoon—where even the ever-present noise is perceived not as intrusion, but as part of the stillness.

And then there is the other silence, Fernando—It helps to write to you, you who now dwell in everything—a silence that slices through the gut like a blade, a silence filled with rage, a silence weeping in loneliness, a silence that knows love had a chance—and it was not taken.

Not taken, to let all the parts we swallowed over the years—the anger, the grief, the feeling of not being wanted, everything we were taught not to feel—surface, and be healed.

Because love, in its infinite opening, its radical nearness, brings not only ecstasy, relief, and joy. Not only breath and bliss and cloud-soft surrender.

Love brings everything.

Everything else too.

Everything we ever felt and buried and wrapped in tight tape.

How naïve to believe that a full opening would reveal only what we long for. To give ourselves to someone—to be opened, unwrapped, touched in every way—is not just an invitation to the parts we idealize. It is an invitation to all that we are.

Maybe anger, resentment, sadness whisper, “Oh look, a door’s open—let’s go!” And then the rollercoaster begins.The wrestling, the resistance, the projection.

A full-on class reunion of all our inner aspects—and the loudest are always the ones we tried hardest to avoid.

Picture this: Anger storms in, scanning the room, glaring daggers at the others—Fear, Chaos, Dependency, already seated.

Fear shrinks in its chair.

Dependency clutches at Chaos, shrieking.

But Chaos is untouchable and sweeps glasses off the table with delight.

Anger joins in.

Ambivalence peeks in, then turns and leaves again—this is her second attempt after hours at the threshold.

Chaos spots Insecurity tucked in a corner and swirls around her like a hurricane.

Jealousy puffs herself up indignantly as Dependency switches allegiance to Loneliness.

Sadness taps Arrogance on the shoulder—“Hello,” from tear-soaked eyes.

Arrogance lifts his brow.

“Ridiculous, all of it,”he sneers to Chaos. “None of them have a clue. No control. What weaklings.

”Chaos laughs—outrageously loud.

And so on. Etcetera etcetera.

Fernando, I can feel them all.

I can’t take it anymore.

I’m about to explode.

That’s what your best friend says.“ I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!”

That’s what I feel too.

The difference between us is—he believes I am the cause.

I know he is just the trigger.The love is a flashlight—or in our case, a floodlight—illuminating the dark.

The basement.

Where, for decades, we stored everything carefully away. It’s my darkness. It’s his darkness.Not something between us.

Fernando, I love your friend in a way that words cannot begin to express. My feelings—of all kinds—exceed everything.

And here I sit, with all of it.

And all my supposed awareness is useless to convey that what this enormous love has opened and embraced is not an attack.

It’s an opportunity.

Even my touch makes it worse.

He says his aggression has been rising for months, he has no patience, every small thing is too much. He hasn’t felt this extreme since he was 25. Like he’s about to explode. That he’s tired of justifying himself (even when no justification was asked). That he’s had it up to here. Sick of it. (I know, Fernando—wherever you are—you’re laughing out loud. It’s classic him, isn’t it?)

So now he’s making war—because he feels all of this—and he needs a culprit. An opponent. He’s chosen me as the enemy.

A war no one can win. Only casualties.

He asked me to come, wanted to see me. I didn’t push.

It didn’t go well. The armor holds.

“I can’t stand you as you are,” he said.

So be it.

I will not fight, Fernando.

I won’t. I’m too tired. And it’s senseless.

I won’t fight anymore. Not against darkness.

Not against rage.

Not against grief.

Not against vulnerability.

Not against helplessness.

Not against loneliness.

Not against resistance.

Not against closing.

Not against opening.

Not against pain.

Not against light.

Not against chaos.

Not against joy.

Not against bliss.

Not against noise.

Not against silence.

Not against too much.

Not against not enough.

Not against mine.

Not against his.

Not against me.

Not against him.

I surrender.

Let it all be like water.

Endlessly deep.

Unfathomable.

Wild foam turning day to night.

A calm mirror dancing with a thousand diamonds, sun reflected like a twin.

A patient snake winding around stone.

A gentle licking of golden sand.

A single drop on a leaf.

A violent swallowing of entire places.

The majesty of love.

Let it be.

I am no more.