CENTRIFUGES OF CONSCIOUS INSULATION

 Sometimes it might be better if only the clicking centrifuges of conscious loneliness exist, grinding ever more loudly among the gears of our brains; behind closed doors, the accomplices, like little children ready to be curious, eavesdrop. 

The stars of the Universe were always missing from the gazes that wanted to stare. Never openly, but always resenting unfriendly insults and criticism, it is now necessary to stumble, let the majority see that such things exist. We can only toss and turn in life if there is no lasting, beneficial redemption, no intention to help; pity - if it existed - sooner or later drinks itself in and petrifies itself on wax souls.

 The more hidden form of existence will one day accept its victims. One would cling to fences running in spiral circles, as if embracing lifelines that could save oneself from the endless misery of the junk-tinted, extremely simplified everyday life; with one's head tilted to the side, the majority - unfortunately still - increasingly rarely notices the more complete person behind the disguises.

 They look at each other outside with an increasingly suspicious, clingy disposition and they don't even think of asking: "Tell me?" How did you get here?!" - In the dark green city of traps, a person should be struggling to survive alone, if he can no longer survive; so every fifth second, a whole flood of selfish admissions bursts upon him, saying, "What should I have done differently, how should I have done it?" 

My vulnerable, homecoming fears squeeze the increasingly heavy, sickly heart; because happy or unhappy, he can only waste away here until he receives certain confirmation of where he originally wanted to go.