Fields.
Endless expanses.
It‘s the year 2018 in Solingen, western Germany.
We stroll across finite fields, which gently curve over the edges of Bergisches Land.
It smells like earth and hay, in a way, that no trampled path will ever smell like.
The soft ground flatters the joints. The most colorful flowers bloom around our naked feet. The wind gently rustles through the forbidden paths.
Not infrequently, we cross the cultivated nature in an unorthodox way, because only a few trail-free paths lead over publicly accessible land.
Our necks not infrequently receive the echo of bawling landowners, reporting from wording: “fully shitted meadows”. No, we don’t want to see them either, the shitty meadows and fields, that are so dear to us.
If it were our fully shitted meadow, we would also bawl.
Our feet, noses, joints and necks, however, cannot help but follow the invisible path far away from the visible, to enjoy the beauty of the invariably privatized landscape and to leave the metropolitan area of the Rhineland behind us.
It is hard to come to rest in this area, where I grew up, let alone feel free.
Forbidden freedom seems to be all that remains.
Can love ever be sin?
