In newer, modern-digital ages - it may seem more and more so - brainwashed thoughts are being driven into the wall, and they are being expelled like snot, because the hated counter-argument can also splash back at any time if one is not careful. In newer modern ages, the persistently nauseating flattery can rather give birth to massive ***** than to chemically pure *******, massively praising the law-makers. The given era regularly snaps the ant-men, like an unwanted cigarette ****, saying; they will be just fine - even among themselves -, they will be an ashtray.

Because the newest digital ages, like strings, bind and weave through the lives of simple, melancholy average people, like some everyday, negligible little package, not to fall apart, because the rhythmic intoxication of croaking frogs is clearly audible. Because - I fear - even sincere confidences may have less and less room among merely conscious, unsettled cell-molecules.

- A person would become a collapsed block if he constantly cried on the secret channels of tabloid media about who managed to successfully **** how much? How did he gain weight, who earned more? Maybe sometimes it is better to be consciously present and permanent loneliness trapped within four walls, not disturbed by a smartphone, smart TV, or laptop.

What is the better solution: social loneliness next to someone whose body and mind can still tolerate it, or to consciously chase away and exclude everything and everyone from yourself?! Many useless, yet essential, questions to be decided. In the flight of a kite, one should still catch a few more bold moves before the big leap into the phlegmatic infinity.

I should not be the only link, the eccentric link, between attractions and deliberate repulsions. I should not be a main character-accomplice, just a simple supporting character-extra, who can be dragged here and there but will not let go, because he tries to live according to his own laws and prosper as long as he can. As an obedient rebel, the trumpeting, hysterical archangels of the Future often sound the alarm above my head.

- I have already changed my course quite often out of necessity, because the World would have expected this of me, even though the "some" knew well that it would be much more difficult for me to balance alone on my lame, club-like legs on the edge of the donkey ladder of Existence. In the fearful cosmic, arranged bends of the road, there can no longer be anyone left who would extend a helping hand as a sign of help, saying; You lived as a human, so we will treat you as such.

Because often I no longer know what the invisible Fate is planning for me, who was a simple mortal in this mud bowl all my life. My eyes would still drink in - if they could - the truthful foam crowns of exiled, foamy seas, where man could finally find redeemed harmony and peace. Virtual silences hardly guard my steps; as if digital sentries were standing watch everywhere. Moving target-human blue It is still unbelievable that they know anything about the personality of individuals.

From sight to blindness, not only the base, vile suspicion against the long-preserved Universal instincts grows in me, but also the haunting vision-image of the One-Beloved has come in and out in the wandering ghost-hour; because my unfulfilled desires are also constantly drowned by the wedding of uncomprehended dreams. The vain camp of self-willed people would increasingly tighten my throat like executioner's ropes. But don't be mistaken, I will catch myself one day and hide from here into the Underworld!

Your outgrown shadow still follows you faithfully, with due silence; you still stand hesitantly, putting one foot after the other, pondering over the paraphernalia of your wasteful, shipwrecked life, because the ethereal telephone voice has frozen into a silence; the mill wheels of Time are slowly grinding you down, just like anyone else who was not lazy to scrape up some chestnuts for himself first.

Between stifled reproaches, you still excuse yourself with your childish naivety, you. what haven't you done for this, or for that vile, nothing promise. Confrontation is in many cases unavoidable; not only in the showcase of exhibitionist superficiality - but rather in the depths of spiritual immersion, because it reflects the grotesque-nonsense Present.

The unspoken truth grows inside you, consumed, which you deliberately keep to yourself so that you won't be fired or advised to leave one day. - Inside, it would have been better if you had lined yourself with patience, so that you could have faced the petty weaknesses of others more boldly. You are standing in front of gates locked with a hammer-heavy key, but you have already passed forty years, and you can no longer turn back at will to change what you thought could be changed; because you tremble inside like overstretched strings, and you are rather just naively and childishly ashamed of yourself, you cannot protest, since the permanent, corrosive dark river of bitterness flows through your overworked veins.

And no matter how firmly you stand on the foundations of your selfish protest that you believed to be stable, you remain alone, so that you don't have to deny yourself endlessly again!

The irresolvable contradiction, in whose subconscious formula this current absurd-impossible World is immersed, first it turns into non-existence, then it organically emerges into the stagnant Nothingness. The ostrich-faithful gangs of yampecs, like the circus associations of the self-deceivers, seem to even play together a little in the manner of accomplices in the intercontinental businesses of gamblers - because a restless, wandering Soul has long since become a cat and has been tempting the son of man, because there is no partiality, no special difference in a prolonged, incessant Sisyphusian fall. It feels the numbing cracks of the rotting decompositions, while those who remain on the surface are constantly eviscerating the last pennies and silver coins from the pockets of the simpler, working average; Even pitifully degrading bureaucratic wisdom cannot be quite adequate these days: dignity and existence exclude each other just as feudal lords exclude a compromising servant.

Free-thinking is not at all chic these days, they are quite calmly content with merely the illusion of truth as long as possible. Now imported idolatry is becoming more and more popular again, but very much so. Because in the guaranteed transitional age, no one and nothing can be themselves, or the same as they were as long as the laws of humanism were observed, the message of conscious blind indifference seems to have been deliberately transplanted into another blind world.

Like startled fish embryos, apocryphal passwords glide, wrinkles write the warning message on the secret prison walls of faces: "Pay attention, and rather hide in hiding!" - Every circle must organically close at some point. The wasted seasons are no longer waiting for a silver star ready to wander. It's time to ventilate the soul-crushing stuffiness that is welling up in man!

Every spiritual wound is filled with little dawning cracks. It seems that actions and consequences no longer have a beginning or an end; how and how can they be connected to the Respite Times?! As if the questions you have decided or just wanted to ask could simply be thrown into a gaping abyss with a final will. A drowning need would drive one person after another to seek not only the light-blooded joys of being, but also the lawful security of the Soul, because even newborn words cannot be licked up by the mother tongue. The ebb and flow of the tides regularly leave their footprints here in the solidified whirlpools of Existence, intended as testimony.

More and more people would ask inquiringly:
"How is it possible that a person is homeless even in his beating heart, when he has a Beloved who cherishes him like an angel and comforts him?!" - There is no answer, or perhaps there was none. The cross-section of the faces has always been scratched by the retained pearls.

As if everything grows back behind those who have crossed the green border without return. Man gets further and further from himself, yet inside he goes deeper and deeper, to find what he has always been looking for in the Odyssey of knowledge; for he is both a prisoner and a sucker, who has let himself be consciously exploited, in every case it is necessary to defy misunderstandings, the cowardly feeling capitulates. A stifled reproach - that is not much - and the whole World is ready to sweep the many sins, offenses, and filth under the rug.

Somewhere, it seems as if the hidden, almost Apocryphal-smelling locks of Life are starting to open again; hunger and greedy thirst are following in its wake. The human shadows, like walnut kernels, carefully peel the rarely revealed one-essence from the slave back, as if everyone is waiting for the deliberate fall of their unsuspecting victims. Like tiger claws, the scornful sins of rejections and unworthy attitudes bite a person one after another, with which he can hardly do anything.

Because the World would crush everyone sympathetically a little, if it did not watch in readiness forever, as if a buzzing ant swarm penetrated the networks of blood vessels unnoticed. Because sooner or later, the mere Soul also rebels against its servant, the gaping of its instincts becomes arrhythmic. Even now, in a dazed stupor, this city with the smell of Nineveh slumbers like a drunken beast, which - it may seem - denies itself a little in exchange for petty, flattering benefits at every age, its compromising actions come face to face with man, and everything reveals how much easier it would have been to act differently, in a different way.

- In the grimace-games of dimples, the age histories of wrinkles get stuck halfway, which tell of shipwrecked childhoods... Something still rings better in a holey bag, and something just rings like a sound; making a big deal has become fashionable, just like unadorned, provocative ******, so that the number of viewers always brings the daily quota profit, the grass of innocence, like some unknown marijuana derivative, always rots. It may seem impossible to walk the peaks of silence that have become songless.

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.