In one of Macke's paintings, you can see four people leaning over a bridge. Actually, you can see exactly three. Although not two. A woman in a red skirt, white blouse, a red hat probably covering gray hair, though dyed purple.
And a man. This one has blue pants, a black jacket, and also a black hat. The
other two figures complement each other – one of them is shown from the waist down, the other from the waist up (also wearing a hat; he's probably a Jew, I think, looking at that hat, so rounded, so pretty). You can still see a boat somewhere in the distance. But it doesn't fit my interpretation of the painting. Because I see these Four People, Three, or rather Two, leaning over the bridge, looking down the river (because it's a bridge over a river) and wondering why I, so young, with so many possibilities in life, why I jumped off that bridge into that filthy river. So, aesthetically speaking, this boat really doesn't fit here. The one in the Red Skirt with the Fake Hair leans carefully, not too deeply, not wanting to look too long, too intensely, just looking – a moment of reflection, and then she returns to herself. But my dear, that only seems so to you. You don't return to yourself because you're gone. You're like spring-summer dandelions in a meadow, which only form a unique whole in calm weather. Just a slight gust, and each one, even the most resilient, scatters to all directions, disappearing in a few seconds, forever. And you know well what your wind is – every breath you take, a moment of silence that forces you to consider what you will become, or the time when the sun blinds you so intensely that you have to stop for a moment, put your hands to your eyes, and stand there for a moment, in the glaring darkness. I know how you feel then, though maybe it only seems so to me, but I know your thoughts perfectly. And that momentary panic that grips you, that something always begins only to end, that you're so damn lonely, even though sometimes you manage to fuck him several times a day, sometimes he'll even look you in the eye, and then I know, you're deluding yourself, ha, you even feel like you actually mean something to him. And you know what else I know? That sometimes you cry when you shower, because for some unexplained reason, it's in the bathroom that your greatest fear of ending yourself hits. I don't know if that's pathetic or terrifying. And should I strike a wry smile now, or perhaps a look of terror, like the one
you saw in the bathroom? It didn't even hurt. Really. I just stepped onto that railing you were leaning against.
Now you're resisting and—squelch—into the water. I had to put my hands in my pockets, though, because they were shaking a bit, and it was making me nervous. I was only afraid of one thing: that I'd chicken out. That I'd jump off that railing, not towards the river, but onto the bridge. That I'd go home, make up a story called "where were you?" I'd eat dinner. I'd take a shower. And fall asleep. And tomorrow I'd cross that bridge again, first to work, then back. And that I wouldn't make it. Because believe me, I could endure anything in life, but not this constant fear. I won't say it's easier or calmer now. It's not. But go. Don't stare at that river; it doesn't do any good. The sky in this painting is green. Like grass among dandelions
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