THE USELESSNESS OF ETERNAL WAITS

 It would climb up again, while it eternally explains excuses for the necessity of action and action. It would only be two in the morning. The black veil of the crumpled night would completely envelop me, I would restlessly search for a possible way out. But the secret echoes also beckon a nauseating restraint, which cling like mold in the depths of the vulnerable soul. The bitter latte drips down my parched throat with difficulty. 

The distinctive labels still shout back from hearing, which have become golden catchphrases halfway. As if one should - often - stand outside of time, in hesitation, and forever believe in the usefulness of waiting. The strange mixture of oppression deliberately weighing on the heart embraces the depths of worries in a suffocating way. The worries are deeper and deeper, soullessly tearing at the inside of a person. Suppressed emotions shake their prison chains on the edges of sick hearts.

 Between the wise and the grave, the debt-intention that everyone must carry for themselves may be worth less and less. The mercy of silence is only for "some" if it sprays. It would be so good to catch the joy of waiting with absolute certainty. The redeeming sob would burst from the cave of the soul, but you can still know: even if you mourn in vain for those who have left, there is less and less sense of belonging among those who remain.

 In the collapse that weighs on the soul, it seems as if the dirty touch of everyday life is tearing at everyone one by one. You can't build houses of cards from half-explained promises, no matter how trendy this trend is now. It would be better to take off our feverish, cackley, earthly roles so that we can be human again - at least - for a while again. It would also be better to leave our nerve-wracking suspicions behind for good.