A STATE OF INTELLECTUAL EXILE

 Density perhaps only becomes transparent on the ruins of nerve-wracking, stressful everyday life; the average person also carries Sisyphean weights, clinging to echoes that thrash in reverse. The late glow - at least for now - is financed by the languid rays of the sun. The return journey - I fear - is no longer possible and is not even congested, because it is increasingly difficult to find a way out in the hope of survival, as if people were generally filled with the alarm of intentional persecution. 

Desire, goal, will, plan can hardly mean anything these days if there is not a patron, a trusted spies behind it, who would guarantee eternal, but false guarantees. For those striving for non-existence, imperceptible Time and Space thicken like mud. Even now, the massive consciousness of ever-dying and ever-changing exhaustion still holds its people captive. 

Two barely used but good-quality handkerchiefs would have to be stuffed into two weeping cavities to finally dry up the unforgivable crocodile tears of self-pity; fluffing, or noiseless groping, groping towards better, more materialized positions, which could even be a pledge of the future, if "some" would finally allow the average person to scrape out his own chestnuts while he still can.

 It is becoming less and less possible for a person to accustom his heart and soul to the quiet swirls that always whisper possible, utterable answers to the truth. Even so, it is becoming increasingly difficult to adopt and accept man-made rules of the game. Was it the intention that came first, or the all-encompassing manipulation?! The driven soul - sooner or later - only leans out through tunnel-sized gaps.