The road is kinda bumpy. I’m feeling the cold under my shoes, and inside. The icecold wind is all around me, and raging from within, and it is fucking freezing. I’m in Switzerland on a bumpy road, filled with rotten concrete, amidst the never-ending snow. The land is covered in white and the pen in my hand, shivering above the piece of paper in my other hand, black. The colour of this plastic writing tool is in strong contrast with the bleak reality surrounding it. I was at a conference yesterday. It talked about success, not failure, being scary. They made us do an exercise. If we could kindly close our eyes and envision what, to us, success looked like? I saw a home; a place where I could be myself, where I could peacefully retreat, while holding a pen in my hand. About a year ago, I once entered such a home. And my stay there was of great significance. For, when I went away, I had not noticed that I had hidden my heart in a corner of that house. And none of its inhabitants, none of the people occupying that place, have realised I left it there. And that it is still there. And now I realise that I was so close to success then, yet so unaware of it. I long to feel that kind of success again. And to write all kinds of life stories in great detail. But I can’t. I cannot. Because the door to any writing seems of little significance when my heart is not even part of the entrance.

As with all my short stories, the underlying meaning becomes stronger after having watched the music video, so feel free to watch it below.

Director of Music Video: Peter Graf