May 06, 2013


I visited this place with great expectations. Buried here are, amongst many other interesting people, John Keats and Percy Shelley, two of my very favorite Romantic poets and Englishmen. I think, that when I walked into the gates of the Protestant Cemetery, I already felt something strange, a slight breeze, my softly trembling heartbeat leading the way. I wrote a love letter to Keats and decided to bury it near his tomb stone, unable to be found by a stranger or caretaker, knowing that in another world he would be able to read it and affectionately reply. My good friend who walked with me through the grass and understood that we needed to rest on the bench across from Keats' grave for a good while, told me that I am 'seriously mad' (in a thick British accent, of course). We walked by the graves of Antonio Gramsci and August von Goethe, wondering what it would take for somebody to decide to bury us here, after we'd died. I knew I had more to explore, more to live and more to create before I could ever think about death the way Keats did when he was my age. I wondered what it would take for me to become known and appreciated, loved and welcomed the way I dreamed to be. My friend didn't take any pictures, he also didn't write any love letters. Why did I do this? Where does my motivation come from? More questions need to be answered. I still collect lip balm for a hobby.

There was no other place in Rome that made me feel this content and made me question my motivations at the same time, yet I knew that I couldn't return. Not before HE would have replied to my letter. But when the time will come, I will know. Somehow.