Unfortunately, over time parents learn along with their young boys. Until this other turning point occurs, when they suspect you to fake it every time, even when you are really sick.

While you grow from a young boy to a teenager, you learn more than how to fake your fever. You find out that being sick can actually feel awful. Growing up over time, you learn the toughest of all lessons: It can get worse.

All of a sudden, that coolness factor is a yellow Kodak print in the back of your mind, a dreamy reference of times when all you needed to get fever was a thermometer, a lighter and an unobserved moment of your own.

It seems that the older you get, being sick becomes more tedious or more intense. It may be true that a typical flu takes three, five days. When you feel like shit, your body doesn't want to hear that. You want to move on. And so you wander around at night, feeling nauseous, sleepless, impatient, picking up a book, making tea, eating a yoghurt and spending the rest of the night on the toilet. On the third day you really hate your body.

Only after you walked your own path of passion, you gave in, broke down, gave up and rose from the dead; after you accepted your fate and let your body win over your mind, then, maybe, you are permitted to go and enjoy life. Eat more than you can, drink until you drop, rock all night, take an aspirin and stay up for as long as your body can take it; until that moment comes when it must tell you again, stop right here.

Writing can do something, it can help you not getting mad. But that is depending on the person doing it. It can not make you a better person, but it does stand a chance of preventing you from going out to kill someone. Many things alike in life can serve as your therapy.

Talking about what you write, hey, that is a completely different story.

I was often sitting on the big rough rocks they had put at the riverside to keep the stream in line. I had stored and later lost my treasures in the carves between the rocks. Some of these were caves that big, half of a nine year old would fit inside. We often used them to play our adventure games.

„Ich hasse es!“ Sie schrie.

Ein Mann trat vor die Tür. Er schwieg. Für einen Moment war nur der tosende Wind zu hören. Sie drehte sich um und blickte ihn an, für einen ewigen Moment. Sie sprachen nicht. Dann gingen sie beide wieder hinein und schlossen die Tür des Hauses. Sie sperrten den Sturm aus, die schwarzen Wellen die weisse Gischt. Das Meer bleckte die Zähne. Die Frau stelle sich an den Trog und nahm einen Teller in die Hand. Es klapperte hölzern, und dazu gesellte sich der Wind mit heulender Stimme.