Ernst soll übrigens neben all seiner altruistischen Art auch ein heftiger Trinker gewesen sein. So folgt er seinem Vorbild wenigstens jetzt. Das Bild der eigenen Seele zerrinnt in der Wärme des Getränks, das mit herrlichen Farben durch sein Glas schwappt. Nie hat er sich dem Kern des Daseins näher gefühlt als jetzt, die Birken, die Akeleien, das Sonnenlicht, das jetzt doch tatsächlich durchbricht und sich über den Lamellen der Jalousien bricht, er hat den Sinn des Lebens verstanden. Er ist endlich der, der ihm zu sein beschieden war. THE MORNING STARTS WITH HEAVY RAIN sounds from the radio. Who comes up with such idiotic lyrics? He turns it off. Why did he break his daily rule of distracting himself with electronic background noise in the first place? He had decided to follow the path of inner healing. To reduce contact with digital media to a minimum or avoid it altogether. To surrender to the world as it really is. To gaze out of the window, lost in the gentle swaying of the birch trees and columbines on the other side of the fence. Well, coincidentally, this morning really does start with heavy rain, so the voice on the radio is right, but he wanted to be immune to the voices from limbo, those nerve-wracking and tearing appeals from the public that have always led him astray. When will he finally succeed in coming to his senses? In understanding himself as a soul, as a being on this globe that has a mission to accomplish. He senses it, just as Uncle Ernst showed him, the uncle he never knew, but who made Africa a better place with his unshakeable faith. Measured against Ernst's tireless commitment to the good in people, his life has been one of adventurous insignificance, in an acid bath of mendacious media and cheap entertainment, bad food and bad company. Ridiculous sports reports. That was not why he was in the world, and since the matter with his diagnosis, there was no time to lose in limiting himself to the essentials. To those forces within himself that were turned toward the good, the birch tree, the columbine. The sunbeams, the positive, the light that unfortunately is not shining today. Ernst, as can be gleaned from his diary, could spend weeks alone, but he could also spend days doing his best in orphanages. Yes, that was the best one could give to the world, but he had not yet contributed anything. Distracted by his desire to please, even though there was nothing pleasing about him, his know-it-all attitude, even though no one knew better than he did about his ignorance, his absent-mindedness. If only it had led to excess, to intoxication, to ecstasy. But the women, whom he had always been unable to leave in time, did not want to get involved with him in that way, but were all the more willing to do so with those who came after him. Fine. Ernst had also been a womanizer, but one could understand the women who raved about this handsome loner, and one could also understand those who had no time for him, Emanuel.
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