Seven Pieces [ENG]

Frustration

~ is a state of disappointment and blockage that doesn’t necessarily lead to explosive reactions, but can result in prolonged irritation (anger) or resignation.

Anger

~ is more impulsive and directed. It can arise quickly and in the moment, but is also an immediate reaction to a perceived threat or injustice.

Wrath

~ can be understood as a more intense, deeper, and longer-lasting form of anger. It is often less concrete and can simmer for long periods of time.

The quieter I became, the louder it roared within me.

After years, nothing had changed from what he initially swore with words, but never followed up with actions. I wanted to believe him. I didn’t recognize his lies. He wrapped his visions of a shared future lovingly in brightly shimmering soap bubbles, whispered kisses, and gentle, casual embraces. He promised me the sky.

Reality looked different.

The cup fell from my hand as my fingers trembled. With a resounding crash, it hit the floor, shattering into many small pieces, and I finally saw the parallel to us when the fragmented image of our illusion of a relationship was clear before my eyes.

The flood of shards spilled across the tiles of the entryway, where they fled under the furniture standing there. As though they no longer wished to be connected to the others. As if there were no way to piece the puzzle together again. Just like how we had drifted apart.

I recognized what could no longer be saved. What I had desperately tried to hold. Unable to utter a single word, I remained silent in the emptiness of the apartment.

Inside, frustration simmered and surged within me, a force that had lain dormant for far too long. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. There had been signs I had consciously ignored. Things I didn’t want to see.

He no longer spoke to me as he once did. His eyes no longer searched for me. Piece by piece, we had become strangers to each other. The longer we were together, the clearer his indifference became. It was a paradox.

While his affection remained shallow, I poured my heart into every day we spent together in a pretty picture frame of memories. I openly showed my love through small gestures and attentions—notes in his lunchbox with sweet messages or planned trips to places he wanted to see.

What once was tender, cautious affection transformed into an unbearable silence. A blazing inferno of stillness. It consumed me. Greedily, it burned away my longing for him and my feelings for him.

The touches between us became rare events, overwhelmed by the passing days and weeks. Affection scheduled, bound to specific days of the week. Organized togetherness. Systematically checked off until it was forgotten and finally sneaked away quietly. Unwanted and suffocated with relief in excuses.

I cried softly, not from weakness. It was controlled confusion. Pure desperation flowed down my cheeks, for I simply didn’t know what to do anymore, and all the frustration broke free from within. Tears that expressed the pain of my inability to change anything.

The exchange about these contradictions that defined our long relationship became one-sided. I spoke, and he turned away from me. Since he didn’t seem to listen, I became louder. I yelled at him. But with every argument, with every confrontation, with every little thing that he neglected, my determination faded from my voice. Until even the words fled from our conversations. It had become pointless to talk.

I had long since stopped trying to discuss things with him. I humiliated myself by exposing my freezing soul and begging for his warmth. Every night began and ended with silent tears. I withdrew into myself because he convinced me that I was asking for too much. A life side by side was, for him, a well-lived partnership. My neglected interest dulled and corroded.

I no longer insisted on shared time. I fled. Into the binding pages of a book, into the layered quiet of the forest, into the sounds of a song. The music blared too loudly through my car, silencing the rising anger within me.

It became increasingly difficult to keep the cries of outrage and sorrow trapped in my heart. Did I really still hope for a turn in the final act? Did I still hope to change something? The crucial transformation of the hero who would finally recognize the significance of my presence in his life?

Each day, I delayed returning home. In the peaceful embrace of nature, I buried what weighed me down. My visits to the graveyard of my hopes and dreams became a cherished ritual. Deep inside, it was etched on the final page of our book that our time had passed. But I didn’t dare turn the page.

I preferred to stand, shivering among the trees in the frosty winter breeze, rather than return to the silent, icy cold of the heated apartment. Two keys to two lives that happened to share four walls.

A dwelling that was not a home. Not a sanctuary.

My hunger for closeness roared deafeningly. It overshadowed the need for food. From frustration grew resentment, which cocooned itself and was reborn anew. My body required the fury and disgust as an alternative source of drive.

Now I avoided touch and the encounters between us. His smile irritated me because it said nothing. His words provoked me, as they only circled around superficialities. His shiny hair fell too softly across his forehead. When he left, it appeared inviting. I knew the rejecting tension hidden within, a tension that, strangely, had the power to fascinate me.

I cursed his rough voice, which seemed to drag me along. The voice that wanted to see the carefully built wall around my heart crumble.

The hours spent in his presence drained too much of my energy, energy I no longer wished to give him.

No matter how tired I was, sleep did nothing to help. It wasn’t my body that was weary; my soul had no strength left.

His forced emphasis on our togetherness and his assurances in front of others that everything was fine took away the courage I had to speak about my fading in the emptiness of this relationship.

His well-crafted stage set left me standing alone behind the curtain. He didn’t hit me, he didn’t inflict visible wounds. Yet, over the years, I felt how life seeped out from the cracks in my soul, and I was on the verge of unraveling.

My anger was no longer directed only at him. I became bitter and aggressive toward myself. Ridiculously weak, I despised the woman in the mirror. Repulsively submissive, she lingered in a hopelessness.

She wasn’t worth my attention anymore.

She was too fragile to endure the necessary transformation.

Not fit to live.

Not assertive.

Worn out. Shameful. I wanted to bury the pitiable figure in the mirror and, with her, her powerlessness.

She lacked the strength to do what was necessary. She clung to her frustration, seeking explanations instead of paths forward.

Time lost all meaning.