The way you treat ”time” in your life is the way life will treat you

I was running late, 
                                                                                                                             I was running wild, 
                                                                                                                             In my savage mind 
                                                                                                                             I was out of time.

Since it is December and this  year is almost over – a new one is about to begin, it turned out(it`s not a surprise) that Time matters.

Time is precious. Well, we all know that. And the funny thing is that we only realize its value when it is passed. I believe a lot of people have already comprehended how Time affects their lives, especially when they are stuck in what I call “Out of time mode”!

Out of time is actually the lack of chance, possibility or courage to do, say or achieve something in a specific time frame!

“Out of time” is often considered as something bad. Mostly because it sounds like not fitting in what is considered to be ”time”.  It`s depressing to know that you`ve missed a chance, isn`t it?

But let me tell you that. “Out of time” could be a good thing. Whenever we missed a chance or we lack courage to do something and the moment passed, this automatically triggers the “warrior” within. Because somehow we always know when the moment is gone and we were nothing but a silent participant of what was happening.

Being “out of time” is like a red flag for all the things that are important in life. If we always fit into the “time” definition, we lose perception of  time. “Out of time” awakens us, makes us more observing, more grateful, teaches us lessons.

Have you ever think how much comfort brings “time” in our lives – “I have time to do that”. ,  “I have time, I will say that later”., “I will achieve my goals later”. Here is the trick. When we talk about time and when we think about how much time we have, we often postpone things – for a later stage, for (hopefully) a better moment. Time looks indefinite. But it is not. Time is a moment! A very quite one! Comforted by the believe that time is indefinite, we remain deaf and blind for this quite moment. 

You`ve heard about how miracles happen out of our comfort zone. Sure it does. Time is the comfort zone. Knowing that you have time –  that will comfort you, will make you lazy. Out of time is where  miracles happen.  Out of time keeps you awake! It is a zone where we live consistently, with eyes wide open and no postponing.

And because at the end of the year we think more often about the things we haven’t done, say or achieve so far, I wish you more courage, self-believe and love to do the important things  “on time” the following year!






by: Mira Tosheva


Berlin Female 365: December Edition #outoftime, Published 20.12.2017

The way you treat ”time” in your life is the way life will treat you

…. A grasp of the timeless…


And the end begins, the end of a tumultuous year, full of changes, emotions, self-reflection, findings and ultimately healing…. It marks an end of a spiral of things, and suggests the beginning of a multitude of others. We live by seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, months and years… we think of time as the only real gift that we actually possess, time is capable of anything… time changes everything… Time scares us into following what age command us to do… traps us between a beginning and an end. Time takes and gives us the best and worse of things.

Time… a concept we created, a concept that we say helps us keep track of life. Yet life, real life, my life, I always felt it the most when time wasn’t there… when time didn’t matter… when time stopped. I vowed to live it, march it, and own it by those moments that are out of time, frozen in the vortex, completely made by me. Life doesn’t happen when you are guided by time, it happens when you have the courage to step out of it. So forget the weight of the ticking sound, and mesmerizingly dance to the drums of your own timeline, no past, no present nor future should hold your music, break free, and live exactly what you are. Walk, run, jump and fly… be made of complexities, magic and pixie dust and transcend towards a horizon where the only time that matters is your time. So cheers to you, to me and to all others who wish for the different… cheers to all of us… might we all find our journey out of all time.







by: Kenza A.

Connect with Kenza on Facebook or by email 



Berlin Female 365: December Edition #outoftime, Published 20.12.2017

…. A grasp of the timeless…

If you get out of time (something like a prayer)



Come to me, my inspiration. Come to me, my Muse. I’m so lonely without you. I’m so boring without you. And my life is so still and so colourless…

My inspiration… Am I too lazy to get it back? Am I too old? Have I become too stupid?

Why? – Because.

Because I long for beauty. I long to see it behind people’s pupils, I long to see it on people’s faces, I long to see it in the city around me, in art, in music, in words…

I can’t see it anymore. I could say that it hurts me like nothing else, but it is a lie. I don’t feel hurt, I feel annoyed and tired. Out of time, out of times, out of myself.

‘I’m so tired, I’m feeling so upset…’

So come to me, my inspiration, my Muse. Help me, heal me, let me feel the worlds and the words inside of me.

Let me see again, let me dream again, let me know my existence.








by: Strange_Chameleon


Berlin Female 365: December Edition #outoftime, Published 20.12.2017

If you get out of time (something like a prayer)

Waiting Between Worlds


Like a waiting room or is. Obvious, yes. More yellow than expected white, slavered thick with worry sighed. Magazine graveyards, taunting tombs. Plants not dead nor growing, sap in stasis, brown creeping green. Walls keeping in or out clad with useless maps. Cheap prints of the generic or too specific. They should have done with it. Have a smokers’ corner. A fornication chamber. A fry up dripping down the leaflet stand, egg painting the face of the man in the grey roll neck, beans smothering the bonny baby and bacon cupping the breasts of the ideal woman. 

There’s a solitary window nobody will crawl out of (the doors are painted on). A window onto a domino set of trees, flowers, kiosks, wild animals and concrete. A bulbous, icy light squints onto us. We congregation with our lives sat uncomfortably on our knees. ‘We?’ Purgatory’s yours only, those waiting with me are only sketched, unreal. The cleansing will come. Once I’ve flicked through the grubby Marie-Claire and fingered my mobile for a small eternity.

My heart aches for the soup my everything is preparing. With salt water and our last shop, table for one covered in my shrapnel. We all get blown out, don’t get so Elton John about it. Nobody deserves it less. I just would have enjoyed more time. I would have taken some things back and put more love in their place. Even if I didn’t feel like it. Yes. Waiting, like walking towards nowhere in shoes that don’t fit.  How will it be, the fire? Bonfire, catalogue mahogany with mantelpiece, Olympic torch or dragon’s breath? No clue. Tick tock and wrong, here the bearer comes. Spotty work experience youth with a tacky lighter. A prayer? I know some hymns. He’s not ready for me yet though. In the waiting room you wait. Time will come, time has come. The watery soup’s eaten and all the magazines are all read. He starts with my hair and I feel like the sun.







by: CM Burgess


Berlin Female 365: December Edition #outoftime, Published 20.12.2017

Waiting Between Worlds

Watching it grow


The seed had been planted in April, deep in the darkest part of my being, lying there quietly in it’s hard impenetrable husk. It barely bothered me at all, and I only thought of it briefly when I was alone and wondered whether it would grow. 

By June, however, a tiny shoot poked above the surface, like a hand raised in class, a gentle reminder of its existence. It rose stealthily in its defiance of gravity. I ignored it, but it grew like a weed, stronger and quicker than I had ever imagined possible. In my mind, the medusa tendril would only turn my technicolor life to stone if I looked at it straight on, so for now it remained in my peripheral. I acted like others couldn’t see that it was affecting me, but they all saw through my facade and began to wonder if I would tell them before it was too late. 

In August, I began to blossom and could no longer hide my fears. I had to recognise that the tiny seed had now become what it had been designed to be; a plant that would soon bear fruit. I struggled to conceal it now, making excuses for my appearance and lateness to work, bailing on friends and spending more time on my own, wondering about this thing we had made, we had created together. I felt like I had nowhere to turn, that I would have to raise you by myself, but then I was approached by those who loved me who told me it was fine, that little tiny plants with beautiful precious flowers make you feel a love like nothing else in this world. They make you wonder about how life begins.

In December I was bulging, bursting at the seams, ripe and ready. I lay and waited for the women with blue gloves and white coats to bring me to harvest, waiting and waiting to see what I’d grown with everything that I was. But when he fell to the ground, they picked him up, and I realised I had waited too long. He was still and quiet. The life and joy that I had been promised was empty before my eyes as I looked upon what could have been, and I felt barren. He was beautiful on the outside, but inside he was rotten. All I could do was look at him and curse myself for ignoring him for so long. I never thought it would be possible to create such a perfect piece of fruit from a tiny, insignificant seed.







by: A.A Eckersley



Amelie is a writer hailing from Hackney, East London. Currently working on a dystopian novel, she has come to realise that there are two things in life worth living for: freedom of expression, and really cute cats. Read more from Amelie on her blog and on Tumblr here.


Berlin Female 365: December Edition #outoftime, Published 20.12.2017

Watching it grow

stark raving

you handed me Three

pomegranate seeds; said


those suckers in your mouth,

sweet queen,

and See what

there is to see.


Then I followed you down,

to that old sacred ground

and I lost the sense to flee.


But the music was loud

and the dancing orgasmic;

how all of it pressed upon me—


those sweat dampened walls,

those bodies fluorescent,

One mass! a horrid bright sea


I rushed to a window

tore the curtain asunder

but all that there was before me


was not sky

was not light

nor a cloud to hold on to


But a smile.

A row of white teeth.


by: Karina Stridh

Karina Stridh is yet another New Yorker who washed up on the banks of the Spree like so much driftwood and has since called Berlin home. Should Hades offer you pomegranate seeds, Karina recommends starting with half first and seeing how you get on; don’t have three at once.

Berlin Female 365: November Edition #skies, Published 15.11.2017

stark raving

Sunset over the Spree


From köpenick with love

Sunset over the spree

The sun leaves behind blood shot searing straight lines on the azure of the sky

Drawing an impressionistic painting for us to admire, to indulge in

Making space for gentle intimate clouds to over tower my tripped out mind and bedazzled gaze

Sunset over the spree

Around the TV tower, the deserted park with its round wheel watching over the nature of plänterwald

The Allianz insurance building lost inside the horizon, showing off its evening lights near Treptower Park

Competing for brightness and lucidity against the sunset on the spree

Sweeping and tumbling comfort over the waves

Reflecting its slumbering, fatigued, done with day, shades

Resting its intensive, now fading power, tucked in behind the moods of the river

Till its waking hour, in the weary dreads of a new morning..

To greet and shake hands with its familiar twin, the sunrise over the spree







by: gaby bila-günther aka lady gaby


Berlin Female 365: November Edition #skies, Published 13.11.2017




Sunset over the Spree

Africa Skies





I thought I knew what a beautiful sky looked like, because I think all skies are beautiful. Every cloud is a work of art.

I grew up in New York where the Adirondack mountains shine dark green and majestic on the horizon. In autumn, the foothills are dotted with deep pine green that peeks out from amazing shades of orange, red, and yellow color. Puffy white clouds, can be imagined into puppy dogs, butterflies, and cars. And on a hot August evening, dark storm clouds full of their own light, explode with sounds of thunder and crackling lightening.

When I lived in the mid-west, the sky opened up, and became even bigger. Great soaring sightlines that go on for days, accented by water-wheel irrigation equipment fanning out like a spider-web under the deep blue skies and super high wispy white clouds. I sit out in my yard, on the old frayed lawn chair, lean back, listen to the wind rushing through the corn stalks, dry and ready for harvest, look up, and imagine a whole world up there.

Then, I step off the plane in Africa.



Every day, I fall in love with a new cloud. Sometimes four or five a day, my love is so fickle, and the clouds formations so fleeting. I sit for hours, staring out the window of the hulking noisy safari truck, face pressed to the dirty glass, craning my neck to see as much of the horizon as I can. I am not looking for the giraffes, the elephants, the wildebeest, or even the lions, but for the clouds.

The absolute beauty of the sky brings tears to my eyes. My traveling companions tease me; when they see a puff of dandelion floating by, they call to me, “Come look at this amazing cloud!” But I just shrug my shoulders and point to the real cloud. The one right over there, edged in a deep almost royal blue surrounding a dark grey center, with pristine white pillow clouds behind it, as if to give it a beautiful frame to shine through. The sun peeking around all the edges gives the entire vista a golden glow. No wait, it’s three minutes later and the glow is more a russet red tone now.

It’s rainy season so every afternoon the clouds float across the sky in giant columns of black, blue, purple, and grey. Passing up over the mountain tops in the distance, great sheets of rain, reflecting the sun from the other side of the valley, glistening like giant curtains of silver draped from the heavens.

Gorgeous clouds, heavy with rain, reflect back to earth the light of both sunset and sunrise. I wake to the beautiful golden glow of the rising sun, the clouds above me splendid in hues of yellow and orange. I end each day, resting easy with a glass of wine, sitting on a damp green canvas camp chair, under a sky that is striped with red, purple, yellow, gold, and orange. Colors I have never seen before, and fear I will never see again. My skin, dewy from the heat, shines golden too, as if I have become part of the sky.

I thought I knew what a beautiful sky looked like. Then, I stepped off the plane in Africa.










by: Laurianna


Read more from Laurianna on her blog Digital La La and follow her on Instagram

Berlin Female 365: November Edition #skies, Published 8.10.2017

Africa Skies

The Dark Night

You ask me for a cigarette, I take two, I light mine and throw the lighter near your naked body.

You grab it, you light up your cigarette and leave it in the end of the bed.

Your crooked smile gives me pity. 

I’m not sure if you’re a loser or just a good guy.

Sometimes is difficult for me separating both.

From the little window of your room I see the sky.

Dark, silent and shy.

Your voice rape the silent of the night away.

You lay in at my side, on my chest, my naked breast.

Your hand gentle takes mine to nods of your hair.

I make nods from your curls, and curls from your nods.

My body, my skin, my leg are shaking from the cold, until I feel your warm hand.

I bite you, I scratch you, I play the game of not liking you.

Sometimes I’m the mistress sometimes the wife.

The dark night is our blanket. 

I feel you close, I want you closest, without words or definitions.

Without  truths or lies.

Wanting you close, without past or future, is already a huge progress.

Wanting you close without doing my suitcase.

Without words, ghosts, darkness or lightness.

In that cold grown, listing to that never ending R.

Cortázar recites his poems and tempts me.

He tempts me to have you closer.

To show my self, to almost love you.

In this moment I don’t see myself, I don’t recognize myself. 

And I like it.

I like that I still remain there, in that cold grown, in that dark night. 

Biting you, scratching you, near, without voice, without ghosts, naked, without lies.

Doing what I want, laughing of you pleasure face, laughing of your cuddles.

I put out my cigar on your chest, I kiss your lips, I throw myself beside you, and we fall

asleep, listening to other people’s wakes.







by: Manouk Van Kuyk

Manouk van Kuyk, is a New Zelander raised in Brasil and Argentina, writer and filmmaker, current living in Berlin. Her art talks about relationships, human behavior and social interactions. Learn more about Manouk and her work on Medium or at the Cargo Collective

Berlin Female 365: November Edition #skies, Published 8.10.2017


The Dark Night


Blue is the colour; they agree on… a sky blue…it supposed to bring into you a sense of liberation… freedom… It is the most appropriate colour of the skies. Yet my soul is liberated, floating in freedom, dancing and raging, in the dark blue of the skies… The twinkle of the stars in the darkness gives it the most beautiful companionship… I could trace the link between the stars with my finger and feel the connection, I could dream about what the golden hour could bring and feel hope, I could say my deepest darkest secrets and feel understood, I could close my eyes, make a wish and feel hugged. The dark night colour of the skies is my soul’s home…

The twilight is intriguing, the skies are wearing powerful colours, an orange to shine, a red to glow, a purple to dance… They are the sun’s gift to the skies for a last warm goodbye hug before the night. Then it arrives… the unpredictable, mysterious and fascinating night, sometimes its skies get to dance with the moon and show its white glowing dress for those who care to observe… sometimes it allows the stars to come closer and converse about the universe’s secrets for those who care to listen… and sometimes it just stands still, writing the tales it sees for those who care to read.

My favourite part would be the dusk, the darkest time of the night, with the most immense silence… a silence to be, a silence to reflect, a silence to share, a silence to admire… a silence of all the silences… The silence before the wake….







by: Kenza A.


Connect with Kenza on Facebook or by email 

Berlin Female 365: November Edition #skies, Published 8.10.2017