Soul(r)evolution

I.

Iris’ eyes burned with fatigue. Her eyelids were heavy, and yet it was impossible for her to keep them closed for long. This was probably due to the coke she had snorted the night before with her best friend in the restroom of a club. Her body was exhausted and yearning for sleep. Iris sat up. She was in Peter’s apartment, not far from Magdeburg’s Hasselbachplatz. Around her lay five of her friends, all of them sleeping soundly. Clothes, beer and liquor bottles were scattered about. Some light filtered through the window into the smoky room, making it difficult to see clearly through the haze. Iris felt uncomfortable and stared at the television, its sound turned off. She couldn’t possibly fathom what was being discussed on the screen or what the plot was. Restless, Iris decided to get up. She headed to the bathroom to freshen up. Maybe some cold water would revive her spirits, or at least provide a slightly better sense of well-being. She looked in the mirror. Dark circles lay under her bloodshot eyes. Her skin was pale, her lips dry and chapped. Startled, she looked away and turned on the faucet. She splashed cold water on her face, which was quite refreshing. It felt like rubbing a cool, soothing ointment on a burning wound. She reached for a small towel that was hanging on a hook beside the sink to dry her face, narrowly missing the overflowing ashtray perched on the sink’s edge. Then, she returned to the living room and sat back on the couch. It was strange, but Iris always found the mornings after a good party to be depressing. No matter how successful the party had been, how much fun she had, the next morning’s realization that it was all over was sobering.
After about five minutes, she felt a peculiar restlessness and decided to leave the apartment on a whim. She put on her jacket, grabbed her handbag next to the couch, and made her way to the apartment door, stepping over her sleeping friends and trying not to fall. She set her bag down and put on her shoes. The heels weren’t very high, but she still felt the strain from the previous night’s dancing in her ankles and the soles of her feet. She fastened the straps and opened the door. Out she slipped while quietly closing it behind her so as to not wake her friends. Iris descended the old staircase that meandered through the building’s hallway. It was challenging for her to maintain her balance. She thought this strange, as normally she could walk quite well in high heels, even when drunk. It must have been the lack of sleep and her tired bones. She opened the old, heavy front door, a common feature in most of the historic houses around Hasselbachplatz. Iris stepped onto the street and decided to walk to the park. She took a cigarette from the battered pack in her handbag, lit it with a pink lighter, and inhaled the smoke as deeply as she could. Then she followed the road towards Rotehornpark. About twenty minutes later, she crossed the Sternbrücke. She passed by the countless padlocks attached to the railing of the long bridge. It had become a tradition for couples in love to attach a padlock here as a symbol of their love. Sometimes, they had initials or were colorfully decorated. Iris was sometimes sad that she had no one worthy of such a gesture of love. She had met men from time to time, but nothing had ever become serious. The young men often wanted more, but were more or less gently dismissed by her. She couldn’t bear the closeness as she felt it wasn’t genuine love; she knew she was simply using and hurting them, and she was sometimes ashamed of it.
It was quiet; there were no people on the streets or paths. It was around 5:30 a.m. on this Sunday morning, the air was damp and cool. Iris seemed to be able to smell the nearby Rotehornpark. She left the Sternbrücke and followed the wide path. She wanted to go to the Adolf-Mittag-See, the lake nestled in the middle of this beautiful park. A little later, she passed the brasserie located directly by the lake. The owner landed on hard times two years ago when the Elbe River had overflowed its banks, flooding Rotehornpark and the restaurant. The Elbe frequently spilled over. Whether it was due to the straightening of the river or the development of the floodplain, the damage was usually devastating. Two years ago, the brasserie had been nearly completely destroyed, and it had taken nearly a year before they could welcome guests again. It was a beautiful restaurant where Iris and her friends liked to linger. Large glass windows created a light-filled interior, and the numerous seating areas around the brasserie allowed its guests to enjoy the natural surroundings and fresh air at the heart of Magdeburg. They usually sat outside since smoking was not allowed inside. Here, they enjoyed the warm sunlight.
A moment later, Iris was sitting on a park bench by the Adolf-Mittag-See. Weeping willows lined the lake shore, stretching their branches towards the water’s surface. Their branches resembled the long hair of a beautiful woman. Directly on the small island across from her – the Marieninsel – stood a small temple that looked as if elves prayed to their gods there. The air was moist and cool, and it felt cleaner than usual. This sight was so enchanting that Iris felt like she was part of something wonderful. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The clean air felt like medicine for her tired and exhausted body.

When Iris opened her eyes, she suddenly noticed a man on another park bench, engrossed in a book. He wore light jeans and black canvas shoes, his upper body covered by a gray sweater His long, deep brown, sleek hair was tied back in a tight braid. It seemed to Iris that he had been sitting there for hours. But that couldn’t be right. She was pretty sure she hadn’t seen anyone when she sat down on the bench. Suddenly, Iris realized she was staring at him and quickly averted her gaze. She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She intended to take out her lighter and light the cigarette but reconsidered and put it back. “Excuse me,” she said hesitantly to the stranger. He turned his gaze in her direction. She noticed his light blue eyes, almost fading into white. Paired with his dark hair, they had an almost magical effect. “Yes?” he said. “Do you have a light? I must have left mine behind.” Every woman knows that the request for a lighter often comes with a certain undertone, not always, but frequently. Especially in this situation, the purpose of the question – to engage the stranger in conversation – was more than evident. “Certainly,” the man replied, standing up from his bench. He closed his small book and walked over to Iris. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver lighter. Iris could hardly hide her fascination but tried not to show it. He lit the lighter and held it about 8 inches from her face. She put a cigarette between her lips and leaned forward. A deep inhale, and the cigarette glowed. Iris exhaled the smoke and said, “Thank you.” Then the man took a cigarette from a silver case. It had a white filter. Iris found it peculiar, but everything about this guy was so coherent that it couldn’t possibly be true. Everything spoke of style and taste, making Iris certain she had never encountered such a man before. “May I join you?” he asked. Iris was unused to such politeness, but she was flattered by the show of respect. “Certainly, smoking is always better with company,” Iris attempted to joke. The man sat down beside her, and for about two minutes, they sat in silence, gazing at the picturesque lake. “May I ask what you’re reading?”
“Of course. It’s about a young man named Werther who longs for nothing more than to be with his great love.”
“Would you read me a passage from the book? Just a small section that you like?”
“Certainly, just a second,” replied the man, taking the rolled-up booklet from his pocket. He flipped through it for a minute and then began reading. In these few sentences, young Werther recounts the woman he has fallen in love with, expressing that a comparison with an angel would not do her justice. He lists various qualities that, in his opinion, make this young woman purer than an angel. “That is truly beautiful,” said Iris, and she wasn’t lying. “Yes, I think so too! I love the language Goethe uses in the letters and this humanity, which is somehow sprinkled with fairy dust. I don’t know, some people write thick tomes, but often, only a few words are needed to move a person, to touch the heart. Goethe has created a masterpiece here, and it took only a few dozen pages.”
“I don’t know, I’ve probably only read what was required in school. But when I hear such words, I think perhaps I should have read more. Although somehow, those thick books often put me off.”
“If I may, but I don’t think that’s the case. Perhaps you just haven’t come across the right reading material yet.”
“Could be.”
“Imagine a good book like a wonderful film. Only, this film is created in your mind. And even if a million other people read this book, their film will always look different from yours.”
“I should read more,” said Iris, smiling delicately. The young man closed his book and placed it beside him on the bench. Then he extended his hand to Iris and said, “My name is Elias.”
“I’m Iris,” she said, shaking his hand exaggeratedly. His hands felt firm but not rough. Iris was convinced that their well-kept appearance could only be the result of a professional manicure. Elias’ dark, long lashes framed his light blue eyes. Iris shyly averted her gaze. “What brings you to the lake at such an early hour?” Elias asked. “No idea,” Iris replied. “I couldn’t sleep and somehow craved fresh air. This seemed like the perfect place for that.”
“That’s true. This park seems to be like a green lung,” remarked Elias, extinguishing his cigarette on the ground and tossing the filter into the trash bin next to the bench. “And what brings you here?”
“I enjoy the tranquility of these early morning hours. Afternoons can get quite crowded. But at such an early hour, you have it almost all to yourself. I like coming here, even set an alarm for it. I feel like it slows things down, takes the ‘rush’ out of my life.”
“Well,” said Iris. “There’s something to that. Do you have a stressful job?”
“I wouldn’t say stressful. I write articles and stories as a freelance writer.”
“Interesting,” said Iris. “And can one make a good living from that?”
“Not really,” said Elias, grinning. “It just about covers all the bills and keeps me from starving. It’s one of the big misconceptions that you can make big money with this line of work.”
“Why do you do it then?” Iris asked. She couldn’t understand why someone would choose a profession that barely paid the bills. “Well, for me, it means freedom. There are no fixed working hours, very few rules, and I can work from home. No one tells me when to write. If I wake up at night and jot something down, that’s my business.”
“Sounds like the perfect job,” said Iris, finding the explanation convincing. “But this job doesn’t come without pressure either. Often, I have deadlines or appointments. Moreover, I have to write to fill my fridge. It’s a kind of freedom, but I still can’t do whatever I want. Well, what is pure freedom anyway?”
“I don’t believe there is such a thing. Complete freedom, in my opinion, is pure utopia. You always have to abide by rules or are limited for economic or personal reasons.”
“But freedom is a beautiful idea. And in one way, we are all free.”
“In our thoughts,” whispered Iris. Elias smiled at her. There was a strange tension in the air. “I have always admired creative people, those who create something, write poems or paint pictures. How does that even work? Can it be learned?” Iris asked. “It all starts with an idea. To bring ideas to life, you need a certain set of tools. Most of these tools can be learned. Only the idea, that five percent of a finished work, cannot be learned.”
“But writing articles doesn’t have much to do with creativity. This could be fully learned, right?”
“Sure. However, this is only remotely related to creative writing.”
“And where do you get your ideas and inspirations?” Iris asked. “It varies. Sometimes an idea arises from a simple observation or an experience.”
Iris was so fascinated that she lost track of time. It was only when the first passers-by strolled by that she realized how long the conversation had been going on. She looked at the clock and said, “Oh, I should head home soon.”
“That’s too bad,” said Elias. “I would like to see you again. Would you give me your phone number?” Iris hesitated demonstratively. Then she took a pen from her bag and said, “Would you please hand me your booklet.” Elias did as he was asked. Iris wrote her mobile number in elegant handwriting on the inside cover of the booklet and put her name above it. She closed the booklet and handed it back to Elias. Once again, he smiled at her.



II.

Nine months later. Iris returned home from her job at the supermarket. It was busy there, although the work had little to do with self-realization.
Elias had moved in with her in the meantime. They had met a few days after their first encounter, and the next morning, Elias was in bed beside her. Iris was the one who suggested he move in with her. She wanted to have him around as often and as long as possible. He agreed, and his meager, irregular income was no concern for Iris. She was so in love that nothing else mattered to her. She stopped going out and neglected her friends. Outside of her working hours, they spent every minute in their apartment. Elias didn’t bring much with him: a typewriter, some books, and a duffle bag with clothes. He had left the rest behind. Elias explained that he was a roommate in a shared apartment, and his furniture either wasn’t his property or was ready for the trash. Iris found it a bit strange, but Elias believed that possessions only burdened and obligated. Therefore, and of course because his job didn’t pay much, he owned little more than what he wore.
It was a Tuesday in April. Iris hung her jacket on the coat rack and took off her shoes. Then she went into the living room. Elias sat at the table with his typewriter. “Hello, my love,” said Iris, kissing him. “Hello,” said Elias, returning the kiss. “I wrote something for you,” he said, picking up a sheet of paper from the table. “Should I read it to you?” asked Elias. “Yes, please,” said Iris. Elias cleared his throat exaggeratedly and began reciting his verse:

“In a sea of tears, my heart did dwell,
I wanted to drown in sorrow and endless hell.
I saw the light, the end was near,
until a small boat did appear.
Arriving at my side, someone reached out a hand
and said, ‘Come with me, I’ll bring you to land.’
I love you, for you’ve made it clear,
that I live and my heart now cheers.”

Iris closed her eyes, opened them a little later, and said, “That’s beautiful.”
She admired her boyfriend’s poetic nature. “But why is it so sad?” asked Iris. “Well, many things have happened in my life that I’d rather not tell you about. Through your love, my life has found meaning again. The poem is meant to convey that a life without love is senseless and sad.”
“Are you saying, without love, a person dies?”
“That’s exactly how I see it. Before, I was just drifting along, finding no joy in many things. But now, with you by my side, food tastes good again, I find joy in small things, and I’m happy to be alive. It’s about living again, not just surviving, and it feels right.” They kissed passionately again. Iris caressed Elias’s thigh. Then she kissed Elias for a long time, slowly undoing his pants. They made love on the couch. Iris longed for his body. Sex with him was different from what she had known before. It wasn’t as physical as with other men because Elias was very tender, ensuring that Iris experienced regular orgasms.
He never went out or met anyone. Sometimes Iris wondered why he never left the apartment. But she was in love, and it was unclear whether she was blinded by love or if many things just didn’t matter to her. She was happy, even though she no longer saw her friends and only left the apartment during her working hours.
After making love, she lay on Elias’s chest and was ready to fall asleep. She was exhausted, but not like after a long run. It was a pleasant exhaustion that made Iris feel balanced and carefree.