Another day passed, and I found myself on the way to the office again. No reset, no clean break. Just continuation. I was exhausted. Not the kind of tired you fix with sleep, but the kind that sits deeper, somewhere between your body and your mind. This whole week had taken everything out of me. And still, there was more to do. There’s always more. So I told myself what you tell yourself in those moments. Keep going. Just a little further.
Week three didn’t begin in a structured way. It slipped in quietly, almost playfully. Max was there, a singer you might already know, and somehow, for a couple of days, everything revolved around her dog Lincoln. It sounds small, almost irrelevant, but those are the details that anchor you. While I was deep in editing, drifting into that strange, hypnotic state where time disappears, Lincoln was just there. Watching. Calm. Present. Like he understood something we didn’t.
Around me, everything was in motion. Alice21 was in the middle of a photoshoot. Energy everywhere. People moving, creating, adjusting, improvising. And me, caught between two worlds. Half inside the screen, cutting frames, shaping stories. Half inside that chaos, that creative storm that somehow fuels everything.
Then things shifted again.
After what felt like too long, I finally met Tjomma. Old friend. Investor. Someone who had been part of earlier chapters of my life. We met at his place in Berlin. The kind of evening that carries weight without trying. It felt like stepping into something familiar, but also something new at the same time. We laughed, the kind of laughter that comes from shared history. Then we drifted into a completely different mode, sitting there playing Settlers of Catan like two people who had all the time in the world.
There was something grounding about it. No pressure. No performance. Just presence. And somewhere in between, his dog Cookie quietly became the real center of attention, moving through the room like he owned the night.
The next morning, everything changed again. I got on a train to Hanover. No big transition, just movement. That’s how this whole journey feels sometimes. One place dissolves into the next without warning. Hanover welcomed me in a completely different way. A backyard, a grill, vegan meat sizzling over fire. Smoke in the air, laughter mixing with it. People I hadn’t seen in a long time. Conversations that felt like they had been waiting.
It didn’t feel like visiting. It felt like arriving somewhere I already belonged.
We ate until it hurt, talked until words started to blur, danced without thinking about how it looked. The night stretched into the morning like time had simply decided to pause for us. And for a moment, everything felt easy.
The next day, things slowed down. Dieter pulled me aside. A short conversation, but one that stayed with me. Some talks don’t need to be long to matter. Then Martina and I just moved through the city. No plan, no destination. Just walking. Letting Hanover unfold in small moments. Street musicians, random conversations, details you normally overlook.
For once, I wasn’t rushing.
On the way back, I watched The Studio on Apple TV. Chaos. Problems stacking on top of each other. People constantly on the edge, trying to solve things at the last second. And I found myself smiling. Because that’s what Hollywood feels like to me. Not perfection. Not polish. But chaos that somehow turns into something powerful. Alive. Electric. Unpredictable.
Back in Berlin, another kind of obsession surfaced. I pulled out my old 60mm camera. Something I had been holding onto for a long time. Not just as a tool, but as a vision. We tested it. Light hitting the lens, shadows stretching across walls, small moments captured in a way that felt timeless.
Ninety minutes. That’s the dream. A full story, shot on this machine. Heavy, beautiful, carrying history in every frame.
But reality doesn’t wait for dreams.
There are days where everything slows down in the worst way. Where progress feels invisible. Where you start questioning the pace, the direction, everything. That feeling came back. That quiet kind of depression that doesn’t announce itself, but just sits there.
Nothing felt fully enjoyable in those moments.
And then, just like that, everything flipped again.
A party on a sports field. Music, people, energy everywhere. Beer in hands, laughter cutting through the night. It felt chaotic, but alive. That’s where I met the director of a well-known Berlin hotel. A random encounter, but those are often the ones that matter. We talked, and suddenly there was openness. Possibility. The idea of shooting scenes for future projects.
That’s how things happen. Not planned. Not forced. Just emerging.
The next day, I slowed down again. Allowed myself a small break. Then back out. Flea market. A different kind of hunt. Old films, hidden treasures. Things that carry stories inside them. I found pieces that most people would overlook. But for me, they meant something.
There was this handmade fanny pack I had been chasing for a long time. Every time I came before, the artist wasn’t there. But this time she was. I touched the fabric, felt the stitching, and for a second, it felt like finding something bigger than it actually was. Sometimes it’s those small wins that stay with you.
Later, I met my wife. We got vegan donuts. Soft, sweet, chaotic in their own way. It felt light. Then I met Shreibi, my manager. My partner in all of this. We talked strategy, mapped out ideas, let thoughts bounce back and forth. Plans forming in real time while the city moved around us.
Then back home. Back to the laptop. Working on the animation for Schnitzel Goes to Hollywood. Frame by frame. Slowly building something that didn’t exist before. It’s a strange process. You don’t see the full picture for a long time. But you keep going.
Still, I made space. For my wife. For moments that don’t fit into a project or a plan.
At one point, we walked through a cemetery. The graves of those who fought for democracy in 1848. People who tried to change a system and failed. Standing there, it didn’t feel like history. It felt present. Heavy. Real. And knowing that many of them later moved to the United States, influencing what democracy would become there, it hit differently.
That connection. Between past and future. Between Europe and America. Between failure and impact.
That night, I met Farouk, an actor. Conversations stretching deep into the night. Then his friend joined, someone who had been part of films that shaped culture. Stories that felt larger than life, but were rooted in real experience.
More meetings. More planning with Alice21. More shoots. More movement.
At some point, I even changed my look. Small detail, but symbolic. Sometimes you shift externally to match something internal.
Then back to the practical side. Office runs. Buying things. Cherry Coke, random supplies, German bread. Life doesn’t stop being ordinary just because your mind is somewhere else.
Training sessions continued. Sleep became optional. Time blurred.
And then, suddenly, the week ended.
Not quietly. Not cleanly. It felt like seven days that carried the weight of an entire film. Friendship, chaos, history, creativity, exhaustion, connection, love. Everything packed into something that shouldn’t fit into a single week.
Week three wasn’t just another chapter.
It was a full movie.
And I’m still in it. Still moving through scenes without knowing what comes next.
This is Schnitzel Goes to Hollywood. See you next week.
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