In most people, it seems that the ruthless, suspicious suspicion, the inner morphing that raises barriers, that you. need to crawl – if necessary, if not – on the edge of gaping chasms, is gradually awakening. It is no longer possible to explain everything with a series of yeses that assume everything, nos that await rejection. It would be good to let go of the excess weight nature of things as they are, let them go. Because often all that remains is the stinking mockery of silence and procrastination, the tactic of pretended, deliberate, delayed waiting, when it is not yet certain that one or the other side seems to move; the spiraling Time drags raging wreckage-lives in its wake.

Hands are still clinging to nothing, hoping for something, they are coaxing from the great whole, although in vain, because the privileged laurel now only comes to a privileged "some"; a self-inflicted loneliness has consciously ****** into itself human faces with cryptic voices, who have perhaps long since grown tired of the whole meaningless hair-raising. In the slowed-down final station between two stops, it would be in vain to discover the cheap testimony of those struggling with Being.

Because perhaps a person would do better if he only lived according to the law of Nirvana-Ninchen; no matter how much he knocks on strange doors and windows, bangs with beautiful words, with human sighs asking for help, the camp of the deliberately deaf can never hear it, because now increasingly brainwashed and stupid voices dictate the waltz, and small-style, cheap, cheerful rascals have designated After the wildly driven modern flea market, at least a hundred years of loneliness await man.

Halfway between heaviness and conscious cracks, not only the power of action and will cracks, but also a little of the uncompromising humility; the awakened self-consciousness would need to hear the inner wave-rumble of the Soul. Outside, drunken wasps are fighting over each other's squirming prey, drilling holes in the rich, juicy career fruits, thus radically limiting the realizations of completeness reserved for simple average people. Nowadays, fewer and fewer people can understand the broken string of truthful, sincere tears, the appearance-Reality seems to fall back into itself, and the emotion is corruptible.

The constant nervousness vibrating on the irises can also increasingly infect the persistent, ineradicable suspicion, which, like glue, really functions as an adhesive, even in the breakable appearance-exhibitionism, but it would be good – at least – to kick it in earnest every now and then. Only the persistent humming, murmuring of deafness in the tiny canals of hearing ears, which are no longer really worried about the fifteen decibels, but the general lines of informers and traitors, who, like silent accomplices, give each other the openable handles on the doors of offices that are thought to be closed.

On the neon signs on the dilapidated firewall, the ashen faces of some celebrity starlets still shine brightly, though not for long, because the moment one actually meets them, the cheap, tinsel-like pedestal that once surrounded the auras of personality, raised to light years, suddenly collapses. – Now they still tolerate the presence of silent listeners, nicknamed permanent – but be careful – maybe not for that long. It is as if one would now deliberately close the iron gate of raw silence on oneself, not letting even one's closest relatives in, who have known one since one's shipwrecked childhood.

How should you live your life better?! More than eight hours of your time is spent on the teeth-gnashing torment of general, but unrewarding work, of which – not much – is the overhead, and your pension is not sure to last you for the rest of your life. Three hours are spent just explaining to your kind of mouthy, adored wife with prehistoric methods why you can't go on vacation to the Maldives or the Seychelles even three or four times, because due to restrictions, even the free beaches of Lake Balaton have been largely closed to the simple, poorer classes of people. You tear your hair out like a petty, notorious neurotic, who – perhaps – is no longer sickened by a system, but by the many petty, bribeable puppet-men and puppet-deals, due to which this whole mess of filth is managed as a whole.

It might be a shame to replay the memories of petty physiological situational slaps and falls; otherwise you wouldn't get much out of it. Your beloved love suddenly announces: She's had enough of you, and that you've turned into a vile, worthless *******, unfortunately through no fault of your own, since there were layoffs at the multinational company where you've already spent about fifteen or twenty years.

How are you supposed to live your life better?! You don't even know, because in the meantime, your aorta seemed to burst due to an almost fatal heart attack, and your coronary arteries could use a lot of heavy and massive repair. You might still dare to act, but not only your life-walls, but also your Me-Time are being closed in a vile and wicked way, mainly by celebrities who constantly only understand the permanent sensation-*******, and of course they are paid handsomely.

Your youngest daughter mostly doesn't even want to know you anymore, because if you don't pull the ******* yoke of misery, and while you're in line for some baked goods in a supermarket, your daughter demands Barbie and a Frozen doll, and even a little mini-tyrant character will torture you until you can't take it anymore and at the end of your exhausted day you buy her the toy doll. What could your pitifully wasted life be for, when all you wanted was a little independent peace and a deck chair near the shade of your quince tree; and when your little daughter becomes a bride, you, like an old, toddling old man, ask yourself: ,,What did all those incomprehensible, melancholy decades of yours go for?!

It would often be easier, like blind Theiresias, to decipher, by scribbling on Braille paper, what the truer sincerity of the inner Soul hides in secret, encrypted. Why is it necessary nowadays to ***** more and more, even for the impossible; the nimbus of our understanding, logical intellect can surely be trapped in labyrinthine traps? It would be much better to approach the uncertain fate simply as a "tabula rasa" than as a good friend, because a trust-based relationship - no matter how much we might want it - rarely results from petty, petty conflicts.

What would have happened if Adam and Eve had decided to ignore the flattering, honey-glazed speeches of the serpent and had finally remained in the paradise conditions of the Garden of Eden, which proclaimed harmony?! - It may now seem increasingly that many unnecessary factors and solid data are continuously obstructing the communication channel that leads to understanding and actual compromise; instead of discovered loopholes and obligatory gibberish, it would have been better if they had embarked on the path of convincing compromise, and not hopelessly running after apparent possibilities offered on trays.

The world now looks like a lonely, unstable, volatile volcano ready to erupt. above; our quickly cleaned shame stains remain just like that even after the lyeing or hippoing nicknamed permanent. It seems that the dog no longer even thinks about the early fading Future; the mere will and humility have become a rusting mill wheel, with which the mass-people of changing Ages dig the pits of their selfish graves. Who could want – only in their own way – to listen with understanding ears to the testimony of inner, bursting wounds?! In deliberately deaf Ages, a nuclearly calculated mushroom cloud produces defenseless victims!

The eternal-child soul may one day grow up to the ennobled tragedies of fate; it will be blinded by the lack of Nothing that nests in the subconscious, because only one chance is possible for the pairs of proportions. In the meantime, as the periods of life history alternated more and more shallowly, the desire for certain falls became insoluble again. The foaming waves of oceans also lost their sails, because man cannot find the Odyssey of homesickness only in death. One day man will understand why it is necessary for him to still post faithfully in temporary circumstances on the bands of the lowest boundlessness, so that his time does not run out early, the promised fruits of the small Sisyphean weights without space and time can only grow and be created around the house of others.

Why can't the human word find a suitable analogy for the inner, more hidden soul?! Because there is only one possible answer to completeness, just like the fillable Universe?! Today's digitally underdeveloped age deliberately lacks the reliable monotony of paced, rhythmic slowness; even in the beating, feeling heart, there is a total lack of emptiness if it is unable to decipher and interpret the belittling feedback of a given microenvironment. The feelings of the duplicated Self are often consciously covered up by the personality that shows the surface.

- They put their self-identity to sleep, or wake it up from its dreams. Because Being, a little beyond death, finally rests on the branch of Nothingness!

The budding romantic morning of summer, like a colorful veil, is now torn into tiger stripes; the musty-smelling darkness of Sikátor is unraveling from itself in strands. Man would like to throw off not only his nightmares, like a worn, worn, worn-out coat, but also the germs of human-smelling, two-faced evil. Like a thick, impassable door, which can lead to who knows where - all the sinful sins of infinity close on us unnoticed. that we have become mortal, and our immortal soul cannot be completely independent, free, locked in the cage of our body. Even now, above every dream-career, a rubbed, greedy, petty condor vulture circles, feasting on the remains of mooching prey. It would be good if we could strip our inner souls of finite sadness, like the secret anatomy of sorrow, because inside – often barely noticeable – a firm barking that wants to whine how loudly roars.

Man always dies a little in his Sisyphean selfishness, he can never fully understand the helpless absurdities of filling up. Hour by hour, not only conscious small-mindedness grows, but also the universally expanded fear of failure and success, according to which: no one can be good enough either for himself or for the great, hypocritical World. In crypt faces, increasingly vile, evil grotesque grins look at witnesses, hypocritical prophets, like grimaces.

The selfishness of the world first necessarily consumes, but also surprisingly often buries its defenseless victims, who would still have clung to something. Wrapped up in petty sermons of words, like pupae, people mostly betray and betray themselves first. Fewer and fewer people can take an understanding look at the precise evidence of corruption!

Sleepless Times, which can conspire at any time even in the tamed land of dreams – if they so choose. Signs of the past should be nursed, who carry the pain of stigma wounds unnoticed. Like the children who were made to sit in silent silence or were scolded, who could not get gummy bears, Playstations, or anything else – now, as if the dawning morning light involuntarily humiliates a person deeper and deeper... Like the tiny ants, a person can also increasingly – if you are not careful – break into broken mosaic pieces, which nothing, not even the laws of the Universe, can put back together;

The secret worldly materials of humanity and spirit can no longer be realized by the balancing desire for certain instinctual satisfaction. Unsuspecting, they cross so many belittling, forbidden thresholds, because they are sufficiently careless, unwary, and involuntarily violate the inner silence of the secret circles of the soul. On the fate-woven veil of Being, a stray, clinging cobweb thread often tips over; the secret mood melancholy of joy and sorrow, just like the secret pendulum of moods, changes every second, like the devil's spasm. Because the eternal Nothing can still be lost by the crumbling Lack, because it lacks the secret umbilical cord that once organically chained its defenseless, lonely victims to Life!

The fragments of memory, like the potsherds, can break at any time; first only the found, yet hesitant movement falls apart, then the hug, or perhaps the handshake. We reserve the pitiful entrance to our cold, cheap, petty secrets – at least for now – for the competent love who would bring the One-Dear!