The honest-true would still burn in man - even if only half, or in captivity of crossroads. He should not give up or let go of his convictions, wherever this unfair, wicked-comic milieu may carry him. His eternally restless, petty, eternally peaceless soul would be so good for some kind of momentary redemption, from which he could still build and perhaps start a new life. Bars and cages stretch around him, while his constant kilometers of walking are tied to the shackles of his sickly legs, or even a vile physical disease.

- It is known: a hundred, and a hundred years quickly pass and where does Zhuangzi's imaginary dream of the fulfillment of the happiness he has found, like a kind of Nirvana-idea striving for perfection, remain? He bows his forehead in repentance before his distorted reflection in the mirror; like a sinking Saturn waiting for the mortal Jericho trumpets of doom to ring into his deliberately deaf ears; he is seized by a consuming guilt that in a given situation he did not dare, perhaps did not want to act.

Man often stands hesitantly on an empty horizon, because he feels that he should turn his life, which is rather doomed to mortality, back into non-existence; he sees daily how the World dismantles, destroys itself, crumbles to pieces. The Soul, like a secret, special mirror, can take on a new body in someone else, the metamorphoses of immortal Beings are greeted in a single movement, or in the comfort of embraces, as when the corpus turns into a silent, echoing cave, where the seeds of instinct are still created and conceived.

Because sooner or later man deliberately retreats towards his own future; he is unable to do anything with uncertainty; to formulate, to understand the hidden Morse codes of reason. - The snarling Cerberus jaws of beasts can rarely be closed forever by the historical century!

Because the unfair giggle, the nagging anger, is growing more and more - not only in the heart - but also in the darkening tunnels of the mind, then it clings to the inner instincts and senses of the person and surrounds him. Our words of apology also convey total disgust towards the otherwise completely superficial outside world. The gaps of fear in our panic are deliberately clogged with a hidden, yearning sigh for something nobler and better.

We don't know why, while others are rising on the petty, compromising ladders of such and such appreciation, the average person is sinking more and more, as if tons of lead weights were hanging on his feet.

The filth and the pile of objects that the light, summery wind is blowing towards you from somewhere are becoming increasingly intoxicating, and perhaps it is better if - in many cases - you say no instead of your unnecessary promises of yes; they splash the ancient driftwood of slander on you, because sometimes the scapegoat on duty comes and goes, and anyway someone has to do this too.

The suppressed joy of speechlessness would often be so good to release as pure spontaneity to the waves of the troubled and restless soul... Those who want to get anywhere at all may have to wait for a long time with throbbing throats, because people are pouring twenty thousand into sold-out concerts and festivals, and there is really nothing to see there except the faces of the party-goers. The stuffy buzz is becoming more and more crumbly, like low-fat pet food that has already gone bad.

Because in the flesh-purple ***** cavities - I fear - the bonfire of spark-spinning creativity no longer flies here and there. Bravely competing with troubles, quarreling and helpful Fate, where are you now?! Where have you hidden yourself, that it is impossible to even sense that someday, even with the existence of possibilities, everything will improve and even a weak person will voluntarily improve his selfish self!

Someday I will find out where your bumpy, misunderstood Sisyphusian path would have taken you, if you had had enough girlish, daring, determined will to stay with me; beyond the clever and troublesome quarrels of life, like someone searching for a secret Apocryphal riddle, I once followed you, while, deceiving my wounded heart, I believed that the immortal Universe would hold us by the hand forever.

Following your tiny thirty-two footprints on the snow-white sandy beach, when you sacredly insisted that we wait until the mother turtle lays her eggs and crawls back into the foam with silent sloth-indolence, - then I dared to believe that perhaps even the chain of meaningless connections can have meaning after all.

What a pity it was when I called you on my mobile and you spoke into the channels of the invisible ether in a sleepy, languid voice, whereupon my eternally childish soul began to hope again: "Hello... here you go..." - I was a bit like someone who deliberately daydreams on the way towards the foggy visions of unreachability.

In the corridor of my dream, you held my trembling hand with loyalty, like an enthusiastic guide, and you led me through the dark and desperate situations towards the grasping of opportunities and promises - now you have shrunk to a point that wants to get further and further away, and I don't know if I will ever see you again?! The molecular vacuum of guts and instincts is pulling you further and further into itself, into some unknown empty distance, from which there may be no possible way back.

Lazily and self-forgetfully you would melt away in mischievous laughter, when you got your breakfast in bed every morning, leaving a host of crumbs, so that you can stretch out your limbs that have started to become stiff like a nimble exotic cat - this is where we should have gathered our shared memories, because you gave your word. I wonder how many more times the sick heart will beat before it can find a home and shelter again?!

CAVE OF BROKEN SELF-MOSAICS

Who knows how long it has been since you could not be whole?! Like a puzzle mosaic, I try to put you together with increasing difficulty, until Time flows halfway between my misguided fingertips; even then, the Sisyphus-heavy task could be eased quite calmly a little. In the cave of your soul, besides the emptiness nicknamed permanent, the conscious awareness of lack also digs deep, according to which: How and how should you act, so that you can tolerate those who constantly surround you and the great, sluggish, cruel world, which has been laying eggs on your ideas from the beginning?!

More and more people are playing deceptive games with you, manipulably unnoticed, and - I fear - what is absolutely irreversible cannot be reversed, no matter how much loyalty or all-conquering humility may struggle. You have turned to spiral paths of dislike - not only out of necessity, but because life with a capital letter, of which you are unfortunately a part, has brought you this way.

You could barely control your inner, untamed instinct; your hurt childish self-esteem suffered geller wounds in seconds. No matter how much you tried to rein in your scheming genies - I fear - they would be the ones who would trip you up first, or just keep kicking you further down the donkey ladder of existence as they please - your harmful demons are struggling because they are rootless, and you cannot understand the Morse code ciphers of the Self that has not yet betrayed you. Fate is now an even more lurking beast into whose eyes the uncertain present forces you to look wolfishly several times a day!

GORDIAN KNOTS OF SHIPWORTHY SOULS


Perhaps it is no longer possible, and there cannot remain such a restless, compromising night, when my soul, wandering like a free bird, would leave the prison cage of my straggling, shipwrecked body and set out on a journey; because I ponder a lot, I grind my own tightrope-walking, eternal-childish nerve: how and how could I have come to trust people who, with a light wave, tricked me over the fence and I have not looked back now, to see if that unfortunate chubby Don Quixote who didn't give a **** about the dog, who I am, lives or dies in this melancholy, indifferent decade?!

My increasingly stubborn, firm silence may still contain aborted fever dreams, if gold could be pressed from the treasure-seeking soul, perhaps even ordinary people could be much more satisfied and richer - of course, if we do not count the exaggerated outlook on life of the material mass consumer society. Halfway between petty soul traps, only one counterargument may remain in my favor: somewhere, perhaps, a little hope for me to still want to live may still be stirring in the envelope-dark seas of placentas.

Now it doesn't hurt to take care of myself, because no one else will. The world is now increasingly the domain of creeping ****, and of more base, two-faced worms, on a secondary, dispensable basis. Their stinking vulture-dog-mouths deliberately absorb the creative-inspiring treasures of culture and knowledge, which are then condemned to destruction by a whole series of brainwashed sermons, so that we never have to think about it. We gradually throw away the distinguishable quality marks of our personal humanity; Fate casts its concentric circles one after another, like a large fishing net over our unsuspecting, naive heads; the eternal baton of life and death - perhaps - is often one and the same!

Your Shadow - if you believe it or not - continues itself, and sooner or later perhaps it will return to itself. The small pulses of conscious mistaken doubts in the music of your fingertips, if the Universe were to play flirtatiously with you. Just believe that there will be a tomorrow when everything is right and everything seems perfect. No cheap, mediocre, small-style insinuations, no series of car scoldings in the traffic jams of the heat wave.

Faithful and true love does not need to be raised as an altar gift from the Darius treasures of palaces on duck legs. The ****** features of simple understanding should be universally, necessarily strived for; with a stubborn, compromising, quiet English farewell - perhaps - you are worth nothing if you do not say what really lies in your heart and soul.

One day you will understand, as an old greyhound, that memory and magic constantly echo within you; the secret Apocryphal order of complex things that have happened and can happen, which only you can safely decipher. On the floating threshold of immobility, like in the pearly foam of the seas, it is as if gravity ceases if you meet those who could rightfully like and love you. The wounded heart preserves fragmented wingbeats, and it would be so good if the Beloved knocked on your door three times.

The scars that change without concepts still remain with you, because somehow you would have to remember them a little; the promises that smell of handshakes towards the future run away in your hands, a little just like the vain flirting intentions of promised help or amorous fluttering of eyelashes. One day, before you know it, you'll be saying goodbye to your sure return!

The falling twilight of arches still breaks through the balcony of the dusks; a few orphaned beams of light drift, the barks of dusks crackle on the branches of the trees - even the former loving hearts are shackled by the wedding songs of the birds. Rushing contacts strain against each other, until even the beginnings that were thought to be planned end in total breakups.

The established form and movement, which once seemed so homely, become formless. In our wakefulness, we listen to the talking shadows whispering greetings, sneaking unnoticed here and there; with a butterfly soul, it is perhaps increasingly difficult to truly get to know someone, because it does not let itself be deterred by superficial exhibitionist frills.

- The conscious dream of insignificance seems to have long been an integral part of the calvary of our everyday lives. For the petty Odyssey of ever new futility is also the homesickness of longing, which once belonged to every man. The garden of despised silences is watered with tears of childish sadness; one should not possess the power of inexorable surrenders - but one should understand their meaning.

Truth-telling honesty maneuvers in a boat among inescapable mistakes and perhaps even itself cannot know how it should learn from its mistakes and the set of its failures... For it is known: every Shadow of Times is only an empty phrase-dream, if it cannot be realized tangibly. We must increasingly uncertainly maneuver ourselves through the turbulent waves-murmurs of existence. - It is not certain that it is possible to cling to the uncertainty of seasons. The compulsion of reality has also become inexplicable; in the discovery of ourselves on journeys, homesickness is just as tense!

I scraped together the broken-tile memories of my eternal-child Hayden Coldfield adolescence; my broken, restless peace is periodically disturbed by a stray mushroom cloud, a nuclear beam of light. Faceless Gorgon prisoners mingle in the corridors of moving footprints, as if they were constantly anxious, convulsing over what is rarely possible to bring back, since it was lost long ago.

In the eternal birth-movement, I prefer not to scatter the seeds of my goodness that I believed to be solid, because the Universe has both led and deceived me. I know: sooner or later, that certain Someone who loves me for myself will find me in secret; I would fall asleep in the honeyed lap of a rocking dream, like a child asking for a mother, because stones longing to bear witness no longer only wait on the snow-white sand of beaches - but I would also have to be able to find a safe way out of the labyrinthine cave system of the soul.

Every movement of the Beloved left me with an endless, snow-white tremor; as he danced at the blood-dragon glances of twilight, when the waves and murmurs of the sea become one with the expanding horizon, and the ebb and flow of heaven and earth are faithfully grouped into a single center. From our bodies - even after twenty or so years - the solid Shakespearean farewell of our timelessness shines. For destruction always follows a little from the innocent beginnings, which at the beginning of Time the old woman Pakas released above our heads; devouring wolf-traps remain beside us, which it is perhaps better not to step into.

- I must endure the legal, calculating filth of evils - at least, for a little while longer - if I want to remain a man in the depths of crooked mirrors, and not a defenseless Sisyphus!

Only the exhibitionist, almost completely unexpected intimate revelations of reality; the secret, Apocryphal dialogue of the eyes, when the eternal child lurking within us opens the closed soul doors, because in his curiosity he himself wants to peek in a little - yes! Only these small, trivial in their insignificance, commonplaces are able to touch us alone. It is imperceptible to get close to the other in such a way that trust is still dependent, but is already moving along better and better paths towards it, so that it can reach its goal and reach a haven, because it has always been necessary to resign oneself to the current state of unchangeable things.

Even the deepest rabbit hole cannot be comfortable enough for a person to be able to adapt at all. The urban, unnecessary noise is increasingly oppressing its members, because they are not able to look into themselves with enough loyalty, while they can.

Dreams are also increasingly denied only to the average person, since the privileged are able to manipulate even their own dreams; a very tiny, tiny little girl with a Barbie doll who is constantly being pulled and dragged by her lady-model mother, because precious Time is not for her - but for profit and profit, and because of this, her entire childhood is punctured and damaged.

Now we have increasingly learned to sneak through loopholes, stealthily, and live unnoticed, so that no one else suffers the unspeakable damage of our existence here on this earth; we are forced to nod unnoticed, because no one else would have undertaken the backstage cleaning of toilets in Vienna, but with a mirror shine. Meanwhile, it really didn't even occur to me when a person had truly humiliated themselves?!

People now only take one step forward, on a rope without a net; they rarely pay attention to their precarious balance - in their calculated manipulative movements they still listen to the gears clicking in their brain, the pressing impulses of their steps, even the blocked calm. Perhaps they should practice the appearances of reality in their dreams, which are still tangible. With their prosthetic teeth grinding, they would rather greedily eat fried meat or fish fillets without bones.

People will probably never be as low as they are right now, and they will never be able to reach a certain middle-class standard, because from their meager salary they can only pay their debts forever, endlessly. - Their contemporaries are sighted colorblind; perhaps they don't even want to see and notice what the Present projects before their eyes with its telephoto lens. This is how they manufacture their buried excuses and carry them as guilt. Even the nothingness of everyday life is increasingly stared at with increasing fury by brainwashed, wild idiots.

Nameless snakes writhe under their feet, because it is a dethroning emptiness, and unconscious indifference would just as easily scratch out each other's eyes today, because it can do so, that all its misdeeds remain unpunished; the past useless years knock on stilts above their heads, because birth repeatedly counts down the meager life. They push the scenery of a bad conscience before their eyes, because they have to scaffold around the canvases of action and will with false words and promises. It would be good to neutralize the intended germs of evil every now and then!