Man - even if he tries to be careful - wears the tattooed black stripes of days and nights; he will notice that he falls back without a trace into the paradise of silent stealth, to remain a little invisible or even unnameable in semi-incognito. The total chaos of indefinability is now increasingly trying to become a part of conscious everyday life, but not for long.

That man is now increasingly surrounded by crooked, interrogating mirrors, which keep the vile cult of superficial, meaningless exhibitionism still trendy and fashionable. If necessary, if not permanently, a talkative, sloppy noise swirls. Being - often - is also a fussy, irresistible One, because the cobweb of conscious oblivion would surround it.

The busy, upside-down decade is also more likely to sharpen sword blades and train atomic bombs; no one remembered, perhaps didn't even really think about, the red buttons that would trigger, or even the snapping trap of parentheses. Only suspicion, the ancient suspicion lingers for a long time, like someone who has secretly stopped in the doorway of a deserted, garbage heap; a crypt-smelling, cadaverous shadow still looks back and forth. Because the game of life seems to have been arranged on the chessboard of birth, and the straw puppets that can be pulled only hang here and there between the strings of Time, which they cannot yet understand.

Man remains more and more closed in on himself, because he knows exactly that out there in the World - fear - that with education and professional knowledge it is not certain that he would be able to do anything, although he may know: but it would be good to shake off all unnecessary ******* from himself completely, but his soul cannot open its rusty keys anytime.

As if a misunderstood, caressing-whining moment were reflexively trying to cover up the clear, tangible confusion of memories, even the forced immobility is increasingly obvious, but malleable. The entire outspoken holy will is merely a childish, weeping insubstantiality. Cognition is - from now on - only possible instinctively.

The unpredictable, unexpected turns of tragic Fate; an accident or tragic loss; the rebellious devotion of misunderstood actions. As if Nirvana-nothing were only the perfect lack of completeness; no one takes the masses of people on earth as a waste, like a pillar, around Atlas's neck like Sisyphus; thus the waves of sluggish indifference come and go unnoticed over one's head. Why is it necessary to cling to waiting or to possible fulfillment at all?!

Although - perhaps - it involves stigma-pains, soul-thorns, it is still better to openly say what the burning, restless heart wants to speak in its inner shell. The secret laws of existence could not be deciphered with the logic of an aerial gymnast; one could search here, or on Cape Verde, or in some icy Arctic Circle, because the inner Odyssey-restlessness is what boils and enlivens the marriage of one's excited blood molecules in its eternal insatiability. Often the ruthlessness believed to be solid is both useless and merciless if one does not pay enough attention to it.

The vomiting, petty tragedy of moods is an endlessly sorted, useless debris, which perhaps even the One-Beloved cannot possibly embrace and understand as complete perfection; it is increasingly difficult to elicit even the most profound compassion from total strangers! A stray, hygienic heart attack gets a complaint-euphoria!

Everybody’s busy
putting on a show,
chasing approval
from people they don’t know.

But here’s the truth —
and let it stay:
Nobody cares
at the end of the day.

Only your friends,
the ones who are near,
hold your heart
and truly care.

So let this be
your daily prayer:
You don’t owe proof —
nobody cares.

It seeps into human flesh, like chitin armor, because what started out beautiful and noble is constantly being torn apart; first love and only then the Universe believed to be immortal. For the secret, sacred-vowed eternal smile of two eternal bodies, as in the labyrinth of ineffable pleasure, forgetting about homesickness, unconscious floating, lasting weightlessness-intoxication begins. We will be doves and pigeons in the wake of the moon-spring, who simultaneously hold olive branches and perhaps rings, as circular, indestructible symbols of infinity.

We let each other into the home of our souls confidentially, because unnecessary words were not so necessary; a kiss caressed juicy fruits between sun-fluffy lips. The campfires of our hesitant hands are still faithfully preserved - even after twenty or so years - by the rays of trust instilled in sincerity. - Between our fingers, but often for moments of rest, only the sand of our Time has been spun through, with which we wrote footprints on the beach. The summery, light wind occasionally catches in our capricious seasonal words spoken to each other.

Like when we hunted for shells in the heart of the oceans, and the horn armor jealously guarded a true pearl. As if after so many years, we are still only learning, groping for the concepts of the uncertain Fate, which was intended for us alone as a gift; as if we were forever moving away but also approaching each other in rhythmic beats. We are forced to latently put to sleep our feelings for each other, since the breakup - who knows why? - is still hanging in the air. From our busy lives, repeated memories emerge!

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!