I moved

Laura Friedrich

Laura Friedrich (*1994)
Throughout my life I felt home with many people, in several kitchens, passenger seats and generally anywhere I bring my books. My work gives me a sense of belonging too. I’ve been working as a dramaturg since 2020. My job is to co-create theatre, to reflect, write and talk about what I see, to talk to the audience and to create ideas for new projects. I’m surrounded by people, music, lights, voices, books and colors every day. 

In August 2024 I fell ill with Covid. Since then I have been suffering from ME/CFS. All of the above wasn’t possible anymore. 

Today, I can think again.

I moved

I used to stack my books              rearrange them              along with my thoughts           they made me pace my apartment and unobtrusevily          unnoticed by me  like trees           they grew   and swayed.

Now we have a shelf.

It seemed fitting             seeing that now              several worlds have to fit one space      so the books         were to  stay in place     and our worlds to expand around them.

And I meant     to rest easy      knowing that I read them             I meant to breath and hold both my world and whoever’s stories  regardless of    where any of us stand.

Yet as I took the books  and put them into place               they were but dead weight                    dead meat        draining life from me               and so heavily they weighed        their colours blinded me                       their letters too                             all foreign                             all of me                          swayed                                                          and a feeling within                          it grew

dead weight

so heavily it weighed     

knowing

there used to be

worlds

life

I think.

What I came to learn                     lying on my bed              time is ticking                  in the kitchen                          hitting               my eardrums                  repeatedly                       it’ll trickle from my eyes                                 eventually                                      that’s how I know:                    time is passing.

I stop walking                 standing up                     hurts  in my dreams   I am pregnant            and so glad       my sister agreed  to give birth for me        so I don’t have to die.

I learn to fly      grabbing for air and waking up I’m so glad        I’ll never give birth         to anything but my dreams.

The policemen on the floor below me installed a gym underneath my bed.      Their weights team up with time ticking in the kitchen.             My bed trembles. My tears run out.           I leave my house. And go to church. It’s silent there.

On the way       the pavement  (melting my kneecaps)   the passing helicopter   (tied to my neck)  a barking dog (biting my diaphragm)         all pull me into a net      that’s transparent           wrapping the whole world you can only hug of free will.

Is that how to become a collective             I wonder.

In church          silence is thick           luckily               smells don’t bother me and I feel entitled to ask all my deads          for life.