Pustefix

At one point summer always becomes a big bubble. Maybe I have this feeling right now, too because the bubble-metaphor has been used by many of my friends for this little town called Tübingen where I have been dwelling as a visitor almost every summer during the past few years.
I don't know if a bubble is necessarily something negative. It is round, it is shaped like a planet and if it is made out of soap water it floats in the air for a while before it bursts on the floor or on a roof top in a rather gentle way. But to await the moment when the bubble bursts, provided that you have been in its belly walking in it like a hamster in its wheel, can cause all kind of symptoms from inexplicable nausea to a disturbing presentment that a ridiculously small damage like losing your sun hat or forgetting to call your aunt for her birthday might turn the world upside down. Sometimes I am seesawing in this summer bubble and I am just thankful it surrounds me. The rattling mopeds and drunken laughters on the alley below my window put me to sleep and the transport vehicles, the church bell and the bright sun wake me up in the morning. All sounds like bedded on cotton and I touch the naked skin of the person next to me to sleep for a little bit more. But then I walk through those alleys during day time, shopping for a bread, some basil or just to take a stroll. I might meet a friend for an hour or two and I am talking little because I have a headache or I have nothing new to say. I feel without energy and sometimes I add that "I have been writing so little for the last two years". I am getting afraid the reason why I am writing so little is because I have neither connected with the bubble that surrounds me nor with the millions of bubbles that should be floating inside of myself. It is good to blow them into the endless space from time to time, transparent bubbles that leave no mark, just to let them go until they burn somewhere close to the sun or freeze into beautiful oblivion.