BALANCE IN ANT COLONY

Angry, small-minded words that start to infect under my skin; I must adopt the eternal child in myself to be consoled. Through the crooked, distorted mirror of the Soul, I must look at the accessories of mere Reality, just like most people. It would be good to comb out the talkative stars from the sincerity of truthful eyes. Outside, sparrows fed with poisonous berries welcome me; Life itself, on the outskirts of which we all balance, responds with merciless struggle - often. 

Perhaps it is better not to stir up the troubled human anthill outside; only moles or worms gnaw at the crust of happy joys. Because I hardly dare to think that Death will shake my friendly hand someday. Cheating - if I could have known how - is unnecessary: ​​every path leads to finite nothingness. Like the two predictable pans of a scale; halfway between the beginning and the end, the conscious futility with which one still wants to get by pops up. 

Every single day I wear a Janus mask, because the sacred loneliness of total solitude pours out of me, which would be quite difficult and challenging to endure in pairs. The uniform order of the seasons seems to amputate one's instinctive desires in deliberate steps; Time, which seems infinite, eats away at its defenseless victims. A conscious groan comes out of the corner of my mouth, because with a returning, wandering soul, I still need to go with a partner on my own path of destiny, which leads to who knows where? But it would be nice if there was a little bit of boredom in the constantly bustling, bustling existence.