I have this case in the basement. More precisely, it is a box. I know exactly where this box is and I know exactly what is inside. It is a very big box of white cardboard. He’s hiding somewhere in the far corner. Dark adhesive tape keeps the box closed. This is also necessary because the corners are already totally impressed. Strictly speaking, it is no longer a rectangle, but rather resembles a pile of waste paper. This is probably due to the fact that this carton accompanies me from cellar to cellar. In the meantime he belongs to the inventory as much as my cat or the sofa on which my cat lies. The sofa changes every 4 years, as the cat regularly destroys it in its fierce lust. Unfortunately, the number of cats has also changed. But what is left is always this one box. Sometimes it is in the corner on the left, sometimes it is on the top right of the shelf. Actually, it does not matter where the part stands. No one has to find it except me. The interesting thing about this box is that I myself can find it better with my eyes closed. You would all need your eyes. I can do it differently. Only I can see through the worn cardboard and I often see its content as clear as never before. There are many different things in there. Some make me laugh, others do not. Some make me shake my head, while others tear a tear from my eyes.

Quiet and soundless she the tear takes her way along my cheek. The teardrop beats almost noiselessly on the wishy-washy cardboard. Another reason why the box looks much older than it acutally is. The paper has already dried many tears. Does it make it more robust? I don’t know. Some days I have the strong need to open the box. I always think about doing this for a very long time, because it always needs a lot of new adhesive tape. And then there’s one of those days again… The need is just way too big. I can not help myself. On those days, I take slow steps towards the cellar. I always try to walk silently, but each time the old ground creaks under my feet. It is so loud that it wakes up the whole house. And yet I like that old sound of an old house with warm wooden boards on the floor. They say: “Say it aloud if you love me.” So I sneak down with the keychain in my hand. Like every cellar, mine is enclosed too. Only me alone has the key. Devoutly I put him in the old lock. Often he is stuck. Once, I even turned around because it seemed impossible to open this door. The old door in the dark cellar. But like today, the key goes almost non-contact into the lock and can be turned around with one swing. The door makes a creaking noise as I pull it slowly towards me. The door opens in my direction. It is dark in the room. No light, but I can see quite well without. I know where the things are. And especially I know where my box is. In the very last corner. Well buried in front of all you would be able to find. I pause in the door frame and take a deep breath. Turn around briefly, but the way was too hard to just take my way back without watching. While my left hand keeps the door open, I touch my chest with my right hand. My forehead creases and I wonder: what am I doing here?

I can not answer the question myself, even if I place it every time I am exactly at this point. A dejavue. I take a slow step back-forward and stand right in the middle of the room. The door closes behind me and I slowly sink to my knees. The ground is cold and rocky. I’m cold and yet I’m warm. My hands grope for the box in the dark. It feels weird and wonderful at the same time to see nothing. My hands do feel so much better with my eyes closed. My breathing is calmer and I feel every pore of my goose bumps. My nipples are stiff with cold and my feet are ice cold. I’m freezing. I pull the box towards me and strangely relieve that the box is still in its place. Sometimes I wonder if I would miss the box if it would not be there anymore. I almost feel like I’m not complete without it.

And so I close my eyes and take something out of the closed box, which nobody else can give me. You can not buy it with any money in the world, and even the most benevolent hands could not give me that content. Even if you get it out of the box, you can not touch it. And so I sit there, resting in myself and take what I need. The box never becomes empty, even if I take something out. The cardboard is getting stronger, even if I destroy the cardboard a little bit more each time. And me? What is happening with me? I travel through time with my eyes closed and rush my tears. Whether I shed them for joy or sadness, I can not tell you. Whether it makes me happy or sad to open the box, I can not tell you. I can not even tell you ‘why’.