sometimes when i walk now, i narrate in my head. i have resumed writing long enough that i view the world through the eyes, or words rather, of an observer. the sentences unravel with each step. i can literally see the words, stamped in people's footsteps. i read it as they walk away, trailing in their narratives.

it is most vivid each day, when i emerge from the u-bahn station. i always take the stairs. the escalator is too passive. i want to be active. i want to participate. it is two flights. sixty-five steps, which i often count-- each one a tiny victory, until i arrive at the top of the station where everything is buzzing. though i do it every day, it still amazes me. the traffic of people. the commotion. the intentness. some people walk quickly, sure of themselves and their direction. others stand lost, looking at signs, turning maps every which way, weighted by their cumbersome bags. but everyone is frenetic. everyone is going somewhere. everyone is traveling. everyone is going. i watch them. i write their stories. i smile and, almost always, they do not smile back. this does not bother me.

this morning i was so removed from myself that i felt i was standing behind my own eyes, wearing my skin like a suit. this was not scary. it was wonderful. it removed all the pressure from my person, as a physical entity. i felt, completely, for a moment, that who i am has nothing to do with how i look. that i am beautiful or not beautiful, because of how i live and how i treat people, and not because i look a certain way. i wrote stories as i walked. i felt free. i felt okay.

our class is exceedingly boring. it mainly consists of taking two sentences and making them into one, using dative or genitive pronouns or temporal or conditional phrases. occasionally, we discuss various words and expressions for being drunk. i am not sure how this factors into the lessons, but it somehow always seems to happen. our teacher sweats excessively. he blots his face with tissues, while rattling off sentences in low, grumbling german. i cannot understand him, nor do i sense any sort of emotion from him, unless franticness is an emotion. somehow, i still really like him. his name is klaus and he is from bayern. when we don't understand, he calls it homework. he basically says, figure it out.

i am okay with figuring it out. doing my homework provides me with an immense sense of satisfaction. i sit at my desk and lay my papers out in front of me. i reference my dictionary and keep lists of vocabulary. i review notes for the day. i write in small, neat lines. i hold my pen like they taught us to in elementary school. i am a good student.

to celebrate our one week anniversary, rebecca and i had lunch in hackesher markt. we sat in hanging woven chairs, like my auntie margaret once had on her porch. kate and i would fight over who got to sit in it.  today we did not have to fight. there were chairs in abundance-- my childhood fantasy come true, curving lines of chairs, bobbing around mosaicked tables. chairs that amazed me each time i bounced and i did not snap, fall to the ground. chairs that felt like a hug, like being held. maybe that is why i liked that chair so much as a child.

later we went to the pergamon museum and took an audio tour of some of the most incredible pieces of greek, roman, babylonian, and middle eastern history. pieces of antiquity. i reveled in it. it made me feel the size i am. small, insignificant, dwarfed amidst the scope of history and civilization and sheer existence. beneath massive marble sculptures, pillars, altars, i felt almost nonexistent and that was comforting. somehow my expanding perception of the world is not lonely, but reassuring. i am small and this is who i am and someday i will not exist anymore and so it goes. but for now, i have this and i should make of it what i can.

i am making it into stories, into words, into moments, into love, into hope. i have never felt so hopeful.

it is just a day of class and food and a museum, but it feels like the best thing that's ever been. i feel like i'm no longer waiting for something to happen. so long, i've felt like i was waiting for life to start. like every moment was in anticipation of another. like if i only had something to look forward to, i could bear the now. 

now here i am and now feels fine. now feels good. now feels like enough.

this is it. this is my story. these are my moments. i am writing them down. i am observing. i am living. i am going. this is my life. 

my name is beth.

i am in berlin.

little.