You wouldn't even admit it to yourself now, but you are forced to guard your own inner silence with open eyes, before being violated again and again every day; you couldn't believe that, like the beasts, you still await the Lack or the executioner's rope as your fate, you are chewing away the iron door of your prison cell of existence instead of yourself, because you have to jump into the subconscious nothingness, so that later you can safely catch yourself like a goldfish.
All that is now referred to as a solid fact-Reality may sooner or later become a terrifying fate, because even the enraged, snarling wild animal is increasingly stalking you; you pick up tiny crumbs as steps, while you only bend down with a sore back for a good bite, because your birth-beginning could never really begin, and yet it is forced to pass.
The thought keeps stumbling faintly, so that it can finally lie down in your melancholy mouth, because karma holds it captive. You are either forced or unwilling to drag your own weight every day, like many, many self-reliant millions of ants, who have a goal floating before their mental eyes; to climb the besieging sacred peaks of the social pyramid, laws, petty, meaningless rules of the game are binding you tooth and nail in the name of the broken balance, so that everyone is now hunting, slapping, or scraping for themselves.
On your bumpy, worn-out path set out from your heart, it would have been good if at least one person had accompanied you, but you yourself can easily see how much of a phrase this is now, a bumbling speech. You will remain locked in yourself for life, silently following your own beaten shadow, like some limping, confused Sisyphus, because you can hardly do anything else. Your wrinkles write your apocryphal will on the clown wall of your eternal childish face...
