We never really had a home per say; often moving from place to place depending on where my father had business to do, we were a pack of lonesome wolves wandering for the food called money.
Our real home was right in the centre of the bustling city named West Berlin, a place still recovering from the effects of the war, but still a major urban city at the time, in fact one of the largest in West Germany (though never counted officially as part of the country).
Most felt like it was an achievement and often were proud that they lived in such a wonderful city full of art and culture, but I was an exception, it never felt like "home" to me it was somewhere only necessary for the necessity called sleep.
With all the new artistic movements and culture you would have thought it was enjoyable living in such a city, but no. Life there was far from being realistic. Why? Well everything there was fake, there was nothing "real" about it almost like people had forgotten German culture itself.
This was the true legacy of the war.
Pretty much everything was non-authentic from the shops and stalls to the very food itself; I never understood what the very word "German" meant.
Don't get me wrong I liked the foreign influence, it was fun learning about new cultures and traditions, but I always felt like there was a piece of the puzzle missing, something which could separate us, something unique.
We were separated from the rest of West Germany and there was a clear growing disparity between what each place considered German however this was unavoidable, surrounded by the whole of the East, we were an isolated island inside the bounds of what we considered so similar yet foreign land.
This was no fault of the occupiers, but society itself, everyone was so mentally scarred from the war they were implored by society to succumb to the influence of other nations.
With all the "happiness" there was an underlying scar filled with remorse, guilt and most of all apprehension, to what could happen if they express anything even slightly culturally German, to what could happen if the country devolves into their former nationalistic approach and to what could happen if others decide to get revenge on the already crippled nation.
A city so bright yet in the shadows of the past, that was the true West Berlin.
However as I mentioned before I never really considered this my home, there was another place deep in the outskirts of the country, which I even remotely considered homely.
The gentle, picturesque hills in Wolfratshausen, southern Bavaria.
Oh the nostalgia brings me back, such a beautiful piece of nature packaged with true national culture, something which I had desired so much.
My father owned most of this land and so I could go anywhere I wanted, apart from the dreaded cliffs, which were crumbling away by the year, unstable and uncertain if they would collapse, like me in a way.
The hills were right on the border with the aforementioned cliffs and were my closest companions; they served as my runaway from life itself, they served as my form of escapism, they served as my home or so I thought.
I was still in the tightened clasps of society, even here, and was completely oblivious to it.
As long as I didn't stray the taboo of the boundaries of the hills I was being unknowingly kept at a standstill, a place where freedom was still non-existent, a place so far yet so close to it, in arms reach even, but still not it. It was still not freedom.
You may despise me for the fact that I'm never satisfied with what I have, but I personally believe that humans always strive for a type of "perfection".
The human race was built upon desire itself; everyone always wants something whether it's materialistic or emotional, if we didn't we would probably still be stuck in the Stone Age.
This 'perfection' is something unreachable, a state of mind I have reason to believe doesn't and will never exist, people are always going to desire something regardless of what state they are in, and that is true human nature.
A species fuelled by desire.
I have always thought to myself that the worst kinds of people are those who barricade others from their desires, a pretty selfish and sadistic stunt if I do say so myself. Unless with good intent, like for example drug use or a crime, I just abhor people like this. At the end of the day every person, regardless of status, wealth, age and everything else in-between, is another human; those are just masquerades to hide the fact that in reality everyone has the same thing, "desire", no matter how far people are led astray.
To prohibit that from someone is like ripping out the pages of someone else's novel because you didn't enjoy it; after all you are the main character of your own story, why should someone else have the right to change that?
As time flowed I slowly developed this idealism and thought for the longest time that no obstacle would get it my way, I thought of myself as a bulldozer who even, with all the dirt building up at the front, would still persevere and would work towards my true freedom.
I was mistaken however the dirt kept rising endlessly and wasn't being dumped, piling up and up and at one point it collapsed right on top of me. I looked at myself like a superhero, one who perseveres, one who never gives up, one who was carving their own path, but in reality I was nothing like one, I had given up at my last hurdle, I had given in - to my final foe.
As a child I dreamt of becoming an artist. Through every stroke of my paint brush it felt cathartic. The southern hills were where I drew my best pieces, a place where the winds soothing whispers and the seas comforting tide sang a soothing melody in my ears - a place where I could breathe loosely and express myself without the hustle and bustle of the Berlin city life. I drew many things; from the rocky cliffs in the distance to the bliss of the jaw dropping sunset, which I found myself often lost in.
As a child I dreamt of becoming an artist, from the very moment I saw a few pieces by Peter Angermann at a nearby Berlin market - I was mesmerised. I was astonished to see that so much beauty could be expressed through a mere painting. The painting spoke to me. A perfect coalition between man and mother nature, a bond which wasn't meant to be broken.
Each stroke had meaning; each colour had a purpose, each painting had its own story and sentiment, I was captivated. Wanting to make something as impactful as this, was my goal. I felt like it was my calling, up until this point I had been nothing but a disappointment; I truly believed that it would change this sad reality.
As a child I dreamt of becoming an artist, I can vaguely remember the feeling now.