I am not only on the best path for me, I am one with the path I on.
The inertia of my being is deeply ingrained in this quantum field. The particles of my atoms drive my hungry esoteric will.
My purpose and meaning never fades, I am one with the matrix, I am free in this cage.

The rusty lock on each heart-petal swung unusually, as if everyone now carried several keys, digital padlocks, with them on purpose, because they can never give the vile current of unpredictable fate what it deserves. They prove unable to swallow and spit out compromising, redeemable dreams and desires. Life only passes by, almost endlessly, because perhaps we all lived and existed a little with cowardice. A discarded, neglected fragment of memory drifts by in vain, the spoken "I love you!" that led to the fatal breakup before the wedding.

No one can figure it out, perhaps they haven't wanted to for a long time, what could have gone wrong in a sacred relationship that was nicknamed lasting, spiced with everything, promising immortality?! There have always been and will always be answers, the simple excess weight of forced steps keeps pulling back its leaden limbs.

After all, it is impossible to stoop to the point of questioning the now happy wife, who gave birth to three children at once, with an open judge-prosecutor confession, as if she could have discharged her social obligation at the same time. There is no need to wait for mousetrap confessions; the stoic indifference builds a mandatory defensive wall out of compromises, with which everyone tries to keep everyone away from themselves first and foremost, so that no one can be treated with dignity even by chance. to question.

There is nothing to take back from the sluggish yield of compromises that seek to belittle, nor to repent with sincerity. Because everyone is now a coward and doubly unfaithful in one person. Even the one who once truly loved takes on the yoke of vulnerability!

Unfortunately, faces are no longer as helpful and empathetic as they once were; they have become distorted, crusted over with the grotesqueries of everyday petty exhibitionist nonsense of Existence. Once again, we are at the point where we are faced with the question of who has how much, and who can chop and mow down how much. Unexpected worms and beetles emerge in connection with each human soul, which is also a bit sociopathic, because we always have to bargain with our drunken, weeping self.

A deep feeling of nausea and disgust, suppressed in the fever of acquaintance, prevails, and because the relationship with every cozy Mediterranean-style family is a bit fragile, mainly because of the afternoon siesta, dolce vita. Unfortunately, the ancestral bird of unhappiness is always a blood-******* leech, a bat, while in the dreams of the romantic, unattainable, yellow, *****-smelling cuckoo's eggs; because often, inevitably, people stumble upon small, seemingly indestructible cockroaches and beasts in everyday life, whom it would be better to avoid and not keep in mind.

A surprising number of people have been forced to let go of the years of commies that were ordered to be quiet. We now carry within us our intentional carnivorous trap, from which we cannot escape; no one can be nobler or better than anyone else, only a prey animal that can be hunted down, crippled by work, and eviscerated; the blind guides of Existence-fate are no longer the donkey-steps, - but much more manipulative protections, pitiful commodity interests, which are placed in give-and-take positions, packed, and put here and there. It is necessary to beware step by step these days, so that we can still pay the quota fee with dignity and pomp for our eternal childish credulity.

Just as eating is the test of pudding, we can't really do anything with our deliberately inward-flowing, draughty tears. Our residual, mushy, pathetic life is divided into three hundred and sixty-five tiny particles not only by Time or the calendar - but every day has that cheesy, almost shameful story to the core, according to which: we should adjust better to our alternate endings. Love ready to unfold would draw in vain increased comfort if there were no roots, seeds-germs left from which the whole emotion would sprout; why does the delicious roasted coffee, which we brew in the dim light of dawn, also have the smell of burnt *****?!

Because we must naturally inhabit the accumulations of lasting annoyances, so that later they can't say about us: "Well! This was also that kind of person!" As if the spiritual-physical connection had already - in many cases - finally come to an end, i.e. a person must always compromise with himself first and foremost, and bargain at the same time.

He often stumbles or gets lost in flooded jars if he is not paying enough attention, and because sooner or later the body also stretches itself towards the horizon of Nothing. The goals and planned ideas seem to testify to conscious helplessness; why should the disillusionment nicknamed permanent be skinned when there is still usable emotion there?! A state of voluntary death also outlines the order of the living, where they can go. From inside, the World already seems like a torn Band-Aid.

The spiraling snakes would now like to devour the entire World; nuclear fission may increase the actual value of mortalities in the eyes of "some" - of course as unnecessary collateral losses -, a white condensation trail inevitably passes over a person's head, left by some luxury private plane while reaching Earth orbit. The rule of the constantly suspicious sentries that remain open still returns now and then.

At the last moment, perhaps after five hundred years, the Cyclops-brained titans enriched with testosterone, who have deliberately forgotten the proper manners, the conditions of behavioral codes, the eloquent ins and outs of compliments, will also become extinct; anniversary rings are driven through broken or white diamond wedding rings, because fewer and fewer of them can only truly experience the feelings of the Universe, which alone reside unnoticed in the depths of beating hearts.

They grow respectable beer bellies not only It's pounding, but it's quite a lot, gentlemen Pál Pató, and while the great gentleman's party-dario, bolsoly-babysitter is going on, it's as if everyone is no longer able to bear the enriched, concentrated half-hearted appearance-happiness.

- The city of Nineveh, which has long surrendered to partying, is thus becoming an increasingly sinkable Atlantis, a tiny island of nowhere, which at any moment - if they're not careful - can be swept away by the moving Danube. It would be better to head straight in the opposite, more vulnerable directions, because now everyone is considered a bit of a good actor in fair-boy comedies; what is failure and success at the same time was actually a lesson and a make-up exam! One day - in any case - he will be forced to take off his mask and become a shameless clown!

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!