"Fernweh" Hörbuch Erzählung zum Entspannen, Einschlafen & Träumen von Wilhelm Scharrelmann

Hello and nice to have you here. I am Rico. Fairytales are great! In today's story, the author speaks of an indeterminate feeling that pushes him out of the familiar. A feeling that he initially determined as far-fetched. However, in the course of the story, he notices that it seems to be something else. Do you know that? Write it to me in the comments. If you don't want to miss any more stories and haven't subscribed to the channel yet, then subscribe to it and also activate the bell. And now, have fun listening. Distance pain by Wilhelm Scharrelmann I have the distance pain. It's just as bad as having a headache. And maybe it's even worse. It's a longing into the distance that fills the whole heart. That makes thoughts difficult and makes the blood pulsate more restless. You can't describe it. It's like one of those tired, dull summer evenings, that now go over the still land, full of lush mildew, where the air is full of moisture and flowers, and the houses and gardens are there in the preserved colors of dusk. The leaves hang helplessly on the branches, and a children's song from far away rushes over the fence to us, until the heaviness of the air begins to dissolve into a fine, painful rain. Silent and quiet. And the evening sinks into a melancholic night, in which only the increasing rustle of the rain penetrates the crowns of the trees at our ear. And we sit and listen out into the gentle darkness, until it envelops us and whispers to us. Or it's like the quiet chirping of a captured bird, which has given up the restless hopping around behind the dead of its cage, and now sits still and only for a while lets the wings tremble in a quiet shudder. The little head with the smart black eyes has turned up to the sky, where the evening red glows, and then a quiet, yearning whisper rushes out of its chest, which has no resemblance to the loud, rumbling sounds it sang in the morning. They are strange, strange sounds, soft and quiet, full of a gentle tenderness, as if the bird was in dialogue with the little clouds that glow in the sky under the light of the evening sun, until it puts its wings together and hides its little head under it and only whispers a few more times quietly, as if the yearning little heart in it could still not come to rest. It's not the first time I've had a heartache. I've known it for a long time. It has already offended me when the snowflakes danced in front of the windows, and the icy wind then hit the windows of my room. But it is most powerful whenever the bright nights begin, the nights that do not let us sleep, in which there is only a twilight that does not let the day be forgotten, and in which the scents of the flowers penetrate through the open window stronger and more intoxicating than the garden, and fill the dreams of the early morning with deafening pressure. But this time it is stronger than ever before. It has attacked me with such violence that I would prefer to leave everything standing and lying down in order to go out into the distance But I can't. It is impossible. I know it. Maybe it was wrong to rent this apartment which is located near the train station, where I see every day, when I sit at the window, the trains rolling into the forest. Even in the long sleepless nights I hear the bright whistle of the locomotives that burn in impatience to be able to storm out. Then it rises hot in my heart and makes me unhappy and melancholic. Out, away into the distance. It would be a loan to me where it would go. Into the mountains, to the lake, into the heath. It was not about that. Just out, out. Sunlit paths then appear before my eyes. Paths that lead through golden-green fir forests, sunflowers on moss-green forest soil, blue-green grass, blue mountains and shimmering seabed. Summer suns full of lonely beauty and joy at hiking, hay-scented meadows and silent mountain slopes. But that is not all. It would be about getting away. I have already endured more desolation and without will gained some practice in it, with a smile and some strangely desperate reasons to get away if life once again fails me to fulfill a longing wish. With some insight and calm it is not too difficult to get away from such things. I just travel as little as in the two preceding years. It does not work. Basta! What's so great about it? But that is not how you get close to the distance. It sits deeper. It is a wing-wreck of the soul, a longing for unknown vastness, a desire for life and a longing to widen chest and heart, to absorb new life, to keep days of return on silent hikes where only your own shadow accompanies you. No, that's not it either. Or not alone. I just can't describe it. It can't be said. One would have to be a poet to be able to say it. It is too deep and mysterious for one to be able to say it. I have tried. But in the end, it just wants to be tolerated. The worst thing, however, is that it has just now seized me again with all its might. It is ridiculous to say, but it is as if the ground is burning under my feet. As twitches, drives, pushes, bumps, an unknown mysterious power pushes me out of the walls of the city. Where to? Away. Everything else is the same. But it doesn't work. Every time my heart swells with longing, that it becomes properly palpable in the chest, and also begins to push and push, that I become completely dizzy from it for a while, I slowly pick up this one thought and pour it over my wishes like a bucket of cold water. It does not work. It is impossible. Do you hear? Impossible. If it were a lack of money, it would not stop me. If I were a girl, like a craftsman, I would travel on foot, the backpack on my back, the staff in my hand, happier than the bird in the air. If for two years the doctor took every hope, had to take, to be able to move again without help, this indeterminable something torments me, this mysterious longing with unbearable pain. I comfort myself as best I can. You have to learn to find yourself in the unchangeable. There are thousands who suffer more severely than you, among other torments, sometimes it seems to me to succeed, but when I believe that I have overcome the victory and the dull pain and look out the window with a smile and with a cheerful expression, pain and longing suddenly break me again like a defeated and now alive source of heart and eyes. What does this indescribable long-distance pain want from me? I feel well, I would not find peace anywhere. It would not be quiet with a flight into the mountains or to the lake. Is it death that wants to lure me with longing? So would my long-distance pain be a home pain? I do not know. I only know that it torments me and that I can no longer bear it. I will leave this apartment as soon as possible, where the whistles of the locomotives on the rails even in the silence of the night can still be heard. Thank you for listening. If you liked the story and you are not sleeping yet, I would be happy about a thumbs up and a comment. And if you can't sleep yet, you can find another story here. See you soon.