How wholeheartedly do we not wish to find ourselves embracing certain emotions? And still, we keep pushing any current condition away. There always seem to linger a longing for something, something which is waiting just around the corner, sitting immediately around the next bend. And then, as time proceeds, it appears life just keeps unfolding itself as we go, bends and curves ahead straightening out, like ruffled curtains getting drawn across the setting sun piercing through a window, the bends and folds of the fabric disappearing and falling behind before we even get the chance to turn them over.
There truly is a certain feeling of constantly running down a tight rope in a web, and, sensing your companions falling behind, all you want to do is spin around and beg «Oh, please, hurry up, or do you not see what is about to happen?» Then, as you straighten up and yet again attempt to face the right direction, all you scout are the diminishing backs of those in front of you, all of a sudden way ahead.
Well, you guess you were never trying to compete, but were you really only in it for the thrill? It can not be healthy not to keep one’s mind occupied; falling into patterns is the best – working in patterns, walking in patterns, talking patterns… Thinking in patterns, on the other hand, I would far from recommend, as these often turn out to consist exclusively out of repeated imaginations and forced fantasies, burning maps into the mind, and these controlling former mentioned printed-pattern courses of action.
But let us rather move on to something concrete. I believe I just may have found the softest spot on the surface of my body. It is located right above my nose, between my two thick, bushy eyebrows. I can not imagine any other reason for the tenderness of this flesh, than an excess of frowning. I frown upon most things – or, rather people than things, to be exact. I have always had a hard time explaining what it is people are trying to do, and why they say what they say and want what they want, and why, still, they never seem able to make explicit what they want by saying it out loud. Why does one work all day long, and why does one sleep one’s mornings away? Why tell people what we think of them, and think of ourselves? Why is it we can never resign and quit interpreting? Why all these illusions of wishes, of roads to head down and paths to be chosen. Why this humoring only for the sake of it; why spend most time deliberating those issues we can never alter nor influence? Every train of thought cost you a lifetime of derailment, because there are no tracks and especially no bridges, and regardless of this the stream of your thoughts evaporate before it even can get measured.
Tonight there will be no big, slow birds awkwardly crawling across the sky, gently stroking their necks with the tip of their feathers as they curl their empty knuckles, frowning their wings.
Vakkert!