He was seventeen when he started thinking about death.
When he saw its consequences, the outcome, the brutal evasive stillness.
He never got rid of that thought, that image that had been put to death.
The immovable body, things had been done to it, he wasn’t existent anymore.
It shocked the young man to the core.
And he started to set himself goals material.
He took the dead man’s watch home that was still ticking.
A good sign, he thought, and he started to accumulate a monetary wealth.
Objects ephemeral attached to him immortal.
He envisioned a stronghold house, thick walls and a large garden.
And he would plant and plant, dig and nurture, the sun on his hat.
Keeping the thoughts of death at bay.
But those thoughts and images were spiralling in his bloodstream,
They motivated every action, every decision, every purchase.
He was certain his money could buy him some more time.
Made sure to put himself into these objects, to fill the rooms with his memory.
Sometimes the form couldn’t hold the man, couldn’t hold the fears inside.
Every night the truth chased him down as he was lying still and passively.
What do you want from me, he asked life, but he had only been in conversation with
Death and thought denial, distraction and constant activity would keep him safe from
What he had seen in this young man’s face that lost its expression, what he
Had heard out of his mother’s wailing mouth as he gave her back a photograph.
His thoughts made everything worse, made everything miserable and endless,
Exaggerated, cornered, wasting real time, evocative, demonised, apparent,
Irreconcilable, instantaneous, accumulate and made life horrifying and
Death a welcome solution.
“Kuno Fischer” by Caspar Ritter (1861-1923)
Croque-Melpomene 