Among the brainwashed, cooing roasted pigeons, in the silence condemned to silence, I will rather be a walking Jonah, who lives comfortably in the stomach of a giant whale, since Socrates' admonitions seem to have been wasted long ago these days, because the whims of great, unknown scales of burdens must not only be borne, but also known to be carried. Because the vulnerable human soul is both a low point and the bottom of the sea! Let anyone say anything.

In the mud of the sea, it would often be better to wallow vilely like a pig, perhaps even to humble myself a little, that they did not shut up my sharp mouth, with which I complained not only to knowledge, but also to reason - but what use is it to the **** of human wrecks, who constantly damage, break, crush, or make their own by plundering.

Sooner or later, I will make a soul-break in my inner Self, where no one can follow me faithfully; because it would have been good to hide a little in a cowardly way back into my snail shell, where no one disturbs me, and from there, hiding, to observe and contemplate the wretched state of our affairs. Perhaps no one has yet thought about what a real thing it is when spiral circles close for good above a person's busy head, and not a single, orphaned loophole can remain, which would show new paths with its compass, I am preparing to languish in the depths of my vulnerable cells for another thousand years. I will keep the personal experience of "thinking more" to myself.

From flowing rivers of light, you will become a comet-star left alone, who has deliberately deviated from its now predictable orbit around the earth and, true to itself, wanders in the galaxies of infinite cosmos, because it is driven by some unknown-familiar homesickness-Odyssey.

You will sooner or later only take off the Enkidu-shroud of your body before your calculated mortality, as you yourself know that even a simple man sets off on his own towards the other shores of the underworld, no one can accompany him. Your restless, self-defeating Soul wanders on the paths of the deceived; it would be good for you to find your own depth and height inside. Because be careful!

This current mud-world offers only superficial, old, tinsel-like brilliance, nothing else, with which the greedy loyalty-chambers of beating hearts can never be filled, because a growing army of ghosts of doubts is already raging and besieging it. Outside, they can understand less and less that the Darius-treasures they have acquired are only the nails of Golgotha ​​for a coffin, and the boundary line considered honesty, from which there is no turning back, is far away.

Take good care of yourself, Man, as you can know and feel; the beast of hesitations, suspicions, the underdog, the belittling one, is only watching you, watching, suspecting, while it sneaks unnoticed into your troubled nerves and tears apart your handful of self-esteem. It would be good to believe for sure that somewhere in the holy gate of the All, besides your life, which you believe to be wasted, Someone is waiting for you. It would be nice if that crazy mechanic would put a stop to his restless atomic bomb impulses in his buzzing, cogwheel brain.

And although you have long been unable to bear the shackles of your meaningless, wordless silence, your intermediate silence, you must decide within yourself to finally forgive your stubborn, childish selfishness!

It would be so good - just for a few moments - to wrap myself around the shell-solitude, which at the same time provides a mild consolation. Perhaps there would be less hypertensive pressure in the cages of my chest, which urges its infractuent volcanic eruptions. It would be good - at least just once - to see the One-Beloved building a sandcastle on the beach with the children.

One should puppeteer into the silence of the inner Soul, whatever acquaintances or disguised friends say, so that the primordial vibration, which is at once related to and supportive of the Universe, can still maintain itself. An eternally thirsty, wounded desert-number would still say what I should hold back from time to time; "some" are chasing their fleeing dreams, while they are once again engaging in increasingly shallow, two-faced bargains. Nowadays, a person would do better not to open their beating heart to just anyone, and rather remain deliberately inaccessible, because the innermost dissolution can only truly happen if, squeezed out of Space and Time, the soul sheds its last, visceral earthly covering and recognizes its inner nature.

It would be nice if a few caring helping hands could find owners for the objects that have become like dogs crouching in the doorways of downtown sikátor. Signs are scratched under the pores of the skin by the holy longings of loves believed to be immortal, the temporary intoxication-addictions of unearthly and cosmic floating between kisses, in which one would have to dissolve and be redeemed at the same time, so that a person can still feel after 40 that he has not been squeezed out. from the secret weddings of the spiral circles, and that he is not totally alone.

In my vigils beyond dreams, the memories of happier idylls that have happened still accompany me honestly and faithfully.

An unstoppable ancient cyclone should hold man's dreams accountable, an eternal flame if the soul, already restless to the core, wanted to flicker; perhaps no one and nothing has time to wait with dignity, and await the order of the final tests. The Janus shadow of sleeping jellyfish creeps through our rusty coils, when man can no longer possess the ability to make his active shrinking, hazelnut-brain remember - afraid - perhaps it will be swallowed up by the insidious vibration-wave of self-destructive waves.

Spread fingers can no longer, tremblingly, embrace the loyalty of the Universe, to which they once swore with the word of the heart according to the laws of mortals. The small, frayed erosion of the body has been lurking helplessly for thirty or so years and does not ask, it only acts. Behind the person's back, old love-intoxications, eternal friendships guarded with fear, when everything seemed crystal clear and perhaps even simpler than it does now, still glow like a fading ember; the continuously drifting Time simultaneously wears, carves, shapes and if the person foolishly does not pay attention at all, what could never have been born is destroyed, that the attractive ara - at that time - did not want a sweetly babbling baby because of her bikini line.

As a mortal - even so -, he has cheated himself a lot, because he has been constantly sobered by the fierce series of judgment days; if necessary, if not for the last time, the merciless, brutal whip of Reality can strike him at any time. A restless, storm-beaten soul cannot rest in peace and quiet; It must dismantle itself, as a supposedly solid cell-molecule, which is being squeezed with increasingly ruthless executioner-like rigidity by the fetters of the body's diseases.

Amidst created worries, troubles and troubles, as if I were falling into a gaping abyss, half-balancing on the edge of animals, hyena-scavengers, like a shaky-legged, slightly hesitant, underestimated tightrope walker, - I can deliberately hold on or not in the draft of depravity. In the purgatory of an endless rail, as if I were one of those Bosch could have painted in his lifetime; a gathering of hell-shaped soul-shadow visions ready to rage.

It would be nice to hide back at least sometimes in some strange, sprawling Hawaiian wilderness, where crystal-clear, raw-visceral emotions can also manifest themselves more emphatically, more faithfully to themselves. A middle-aged rose withers and withers in the filth of big cities, because there was no one left to console her instead of her selfish strawman-peddler husband; because even hook-nosed prophets fall for whales, after devouring even the smallest tadpole embryos.

Forever chained as mere passengers in spiral circles, because that is how people are now, intentionally tied to the work methods of unbearable, unfulfillable working hours, petty-gallant deadlines. Because now it seems that washerwomen and hostess models are once again selling their commodity love for tinkling silver coins, until another incomprehensible, twisted property division lawsuit comes; "Daddy and Mommy really love you children! You just know that Mommy and Daddy can't stand each other anymore!"

They would rather drown each other in a spoonful of water, if they could do that!" - Thus, the slow, conscious disillusionment can still remain. Among the calculated, manipulative genres of attempts and cheap escapes, there is certainly no one left who would actually understand their job and act as their heart commands?! - A casual party queen or a diva imitating luxury is handing out slaps with stamps stuck on guest masks.

I must fall alone on the harmful, wretched waste of everyday life, like a constantly shrinking, bloated, bloated dwarf; because not only the petty, predictable pair of opposites of goodness and evil has become a mysterious jungle - but the fist of bribery is hitting me in the head, since the star of the Universe that promises peace may not even be reachable. Like a shipwrecked ship, the petal-soul is constantly orphaned in it, which once wanted to trust in the One.

A flood of disastrous sins will trample me to the ground if I am not careful. Human-bloods struggling for ends are screaming and shouting around me, tearing apart the secret chalice of selfless helping intentions to their heart's content, dragon-angry crowds-herds are drunkenly going to each other's laps, or are fighting. Who is in the mood for what?! The eternal child, always curious and ready to play, who I cannot forget and would never intend to let go, is still bent over in me, still sheepish.

Is it necessary to crumble at the table of vigils, like millstones in the night burdened with nightmares?! I listen in silence to the beaks with iron hooks that cut life, in the mouths of half-darkness they were still forced to snap like cutting scissors; let the moonscape-loneliness be petty, let it be selfish, since they were at once primitive, unbridled restless wanderers, whom Zhivágoy winds, Jericho trumpets have torn, flayed, and whined enough.

Even a believer in rainbow-foamy promises, I can no longer be completely happy. On the thin, rabbit-tail-sized border of a passing minute and eternity, it would be good for the sick, arrhythmic heart to know and feel when the judgment of mortality is preparing for its last supper, the one-Someone might still know here on this earth!

Tamable wolves are raging outside like a mob of people; a storm-hurricane roars like this when the immense horde-mass starts. A storm of art - not so much anymore - so that only a few on-duty Celeb-stars can become really big altar-jerking *******, whom the next generation of cyber-*** will look up to as worthy role models. Beauty contest, Anna-ball, but for what?! The good-sounding promise-speech flows from a jug, so that an employed model-presenter can always do well, since he hardly knows anything else.

Because "some" have to be barefoot to march even the length of a street towards success and a certain dubious fame. The exhibitionist overheatedness of voluntary, but still publicly humiliating, naked undressings is necessary so that a tabloid channel that is already doomed to die can still produce the sufficient number of viewers. Because every futile existence here is now torn in two and the simple man, tearing his hair out, can no longer decide what would be better?

To go or to stay in this wasteland doomed to Nirvana?! Among the fluffy roots that were already intended, that which could not even be born yet. The introverted consciousness that does not lie to itself cannot be a virtue now, but rather a conscious mistake. It would be good if superficial faces would not only suggest manipulable duplicity - but would redeem reality with a little sincerity and the pearly waters of tears. Why do we now have to to listen to what and how the wolf pack of the troubled city night is howling, completely out of its senses?!