The Only Way Out

25.X.25

I dream that I am sitting in a large string orchestra, whose seats are arranged in rows on a gradient, so that the rearmost one is a few meters higher than the front one, where I have just taken a seat next to a writer friend. In front of us, at eye level: the rapt audience.

The orchestra members are preparing for the concert. My friend turns out to have a violin made of rubber-like plastic, into which a device has been mounted that can play every conceivable piece. I ask him why. The answer: »So that it sounds better.« Personally, I know I cannot play at all. Someone must have misunderstood what I have said, but feeling like the child that I am, I have not been able to bring myself to protest.Now I am sitting here, face to face with the audience, striking the strings with my bow. I pretend to check if it is suitably tightened, try to look experienced as I rosin it, but feeling the rising anticipation in the hall, I frantically search for a way out. Just as I have decided to get up and leave – I know it will cause a scandal, but the concert is about to begin and nothing could be worse than pretending to play my way through it – I wake up. As if that – waking up – were the only way out.