Seven
I used to be a painter.
I painted skies full of stars.
I painted flower fields and animals
and children carrying lanterns.
And everyone was impressed
and wished they could get a painting.
But then one thing happened.
I suddenly turned seven.
I used to be a runner,
the fastest far and wide.
I even won against my dad.
And nobody measured the time.
When others walked, I ran
for the running, not for the winning.
But then one thing happened.
I suddenly turned seven.
I used to be a dancer.
And everyone told me I could do it.
I stretched and twisted every day,
but never for someone else.
I didn’t care what people thought.
After dancing, I was full of love.
But then one thing happened.
I suddenly turned seven.
At seven everything became different.
At seven things became embarrassing.
At seven you stopped painting
and danced only in secret.
At seven numbers became important
on stopwatches and report cards.
And the opinions of other people,
even of the kind ones.
At seven I understood.
You don’t do things just for fun,
that painting is an art
and dancing a competitive sport,
that the real runners
are the ones on the podium,
and that you are only good at something
if you win something.
And when in a game someone says
that I’m good at drawing,
I say, oh nonsense
and turn the hourglass again
and I feel briefly sad,
but I don’t really know why.
And a part of me still wishes today
that no one had ever told me
that when I painted someone
they never really looked like them,
that even back then in ballet
I always danced out of line
and that dad let me win
when we raced each other.
And when someone asks me today
what is the richest place in the world?
Then I say not a castle
and not banks full of money.
Then I say the graveyard.
And when someone then asks,
then I say
there lie pictures
that no one ever painted.
There lie all the books
that were never written,
and inventions
that were never invented,
because we tell a child of seven
that such things
are always
just children’s dreams.