NEST

Back home after this three-month reflection break, after Egypt. My mind is made up, i will leave again for longer – well, maybe. Let’s see.

Berlin is capped in white and deliciously cold, beautiful and grumpy as always. And my little cosy flat, the comfy nest i have built for myself over the past seven years, has welcomed me with its usual mix of reassurance and claustrophobia. I love this flat, i truly do, it has seen so much, mostly love and growth, but also solitude and doubts. With all its flaws, i love it as i love a part of myself, because it is.

Every time i come back after some time, my flat and i do this silly little dance in which i pretend to be content with its shape, murmuring well it’s really not too bad, my flatmate did his best i’m so lucky to have him, look at the plants they look great!, and trying to convince myself i am not going to spend hours cleaning it up the way i clean it up. My flat in return tries to soothe me, whispers that its in great shape and that i need not to worry about its corners and the film of calc on its shower’s wall, it genuinely is doing just fine and i should focus on myself. Actually, it insists sweetly, this might be the time i learn to coexist with a bit more dust.

God only knows who many romantic and platonic relationships you drove to the brink of breakdown because of your weird tidiness girl! How you made people who genuinely loved you, or were trying to get closer, feel out of place, unwanted, wrong. And She only can remember the infinite times you postponed doing something good for yourself, postponed your writing, postponed the bringing to life of some creative idea, because you really needed to vacuum or clean the bathroom or do your laundry or repot that monstera – now.

Yet, time and time again, i ignore its loving and caring whispers and fall back into this fucked up weird pattern which annoys me so much. Little by little, in between meetings and errands and emptying my backpack, i clean up a perfectly clean flat. It feels like i bring back colours, my colours, my shades of pink and orange and warm red and brown, to a faded picture of myself. It feels like polishing old silverware. It feels like breathing deeply to make an incoming panic attack slowly retreat. It feels like a hug and like love – but a twisted and outdated kind of love i no longer want nor need.