Because the unfair giggle, the nagging anger, is growing more and more - not only in the heart - but also in the darkening tunnels of the mind, then it clings to the inner instincts and senses of the person and surrounds him. Our words of apology also convey total disgust towards the otherwise completely superficial outside world. The gaps of fear in our panic are deliberately clogged with a hidden, yearning sigh for something nobler and better.

We don't know why, while others are rising on the petty, compromising ladders of such and such appreciation, the average person is sinking more and more, as if tons of lead weights were hanging on his feet.

The filth and the pile of objects that the light, summery wind is blowing towards you from somewhere are becoming increasingly intoxicating, and perhaps it is better if - in many cases - you say no instead of your unnecessary promises of yes; they splash the ancient driftwood of slander on you, because sometimes the scapegoat on duty comes and goes, and anyway someone has to do this too.

The suppressed joy of speechlessness would often be so good to release as pure spontaneity to the waves of the troubled and restless soul... Those who want to get anywhere at all may have to wait for a long time with throbbing throats, because people are pouring twenty thousand into sold-out concerts and festivals, and there is really nothing to see there except the faces of the party-goers. The stuffy buzz is becoming more and more crumbly, like low-fat pet food that has already gone bad.

Because in the flesh-purple ***** cavities - I fear - the bonfire of spark-spinning creativity no longer flies here and there. Bravely competing with troubles, quarreling and helpful Fate, where are you now?! Where have you hidden yourself, that it is impossible to even sense that someday, even with the existence of possibilities, everything will improve and even a weak person will voluntarily improve his selfish self!

Your scars are classrooms
where you unlearn silence.
You teach them alphabets
but forget to spell peace for yourself.
Every battleground feels like drowning
in profoundly traumatic echoes.

No one to save.
No one to secure.
No one to fight  your battle.
Fight, fight, fight—
constantly fighting to overshadow the struggle,
to numb the fear.

They bullied.
They imposed the fear.
Caged the freedom
you weren't allowed to grow into,
They forced you to abandon the version of yourself
on the empty playground.

Monsters, monsters, monsters—
wearing human flesh and masks,
not in shadows but in daylight ,
borrowed smiles, fake trembling.
They damaged an innocent soul
without cracking the skin.
Their voice, soaked in hostility,
made you wince in ways
silence couldn’t peek through.


And the wound !
just lives forever in the soul,
soaked in horror, terror, and shame.
The bruises on your skin—
not visible, nor ever seen.

Still, from the ashes, you rose like a phoenix.
You’ve learned to wear the traumas as your shield,
fighting silent battles rooted in their sins.
You’ve acquainted yourself with how to live
not in despair,
but as someone who carries storms
with grace—even in unsettling ocean waves.

Someday I will find out where your bumpy, misunderstood Sisyphusian path would have taken you, if you had had enough girlish, daring, determined will to stay with me; beyond the clever and troublesome quarrels of life, like someone searching for a secret Apocryphal riddle, I once followed you, while, deceiving my wounded heart, I believed that the immortal Universe would hold us by the hand forever.

Following your tiny thirty-two footprints on the snow-white sandy beach, when you sacredly insisted that we wait until the mother turtle lays her eggs and crawls back into the foam with silent sloth-indolence, - then I dared to believe that perhaps even the chain of meaningless connections can have meaning after all.

What a pity it was when I called you on my mobile and you spoke into the channels of the invisible ether in a sleepy, languid voice, whereupon my eternally childish soul began to hope again: "Hello... here you go..." - I was a bit like someone who deliberately daydreams on the way towards the foggy visions of unreachability.

In the corridor of my dream, you held my trembling hand with loyalty, like an enthusiastic guide, and you led me through the dark and desperate situations towards the grasping of opportunities and promises - now you have shrunk to a point that wants to get further and further away, and I don't know if I will ever see you again?! The molecular vacuum of guts and instincts is pulling you further and further into itself, into some unknown empty distance, from which there may be no possible way back.

Lazily and self-forgetfully you would melt away in mischievous laughter, when you got your breakfast in bed every morning, leaving a host of crumbs, so that you can stretch out your limbs that have started to become stiff like a nimble exotic cat - this is where we should have gathered our shared memories, because you gave your word. I wonder how many more times the sick heart will beat before it can find a home and shelter again?!

CAVE OF BROKEN SELF-MOSAICS

Who knows how long it has been since you could not be whole?! Like a puzzle mosaic, I try to put you together with increasing difficulty, until Time flows halfway between my misguided fingertips; even then, the Sisyphus-heavy task could be eased quite calmly a little. In the cave of your soul, besides the emptiness nicknamed permanent, the conscious awareness of lack also digs deep, according to which: How and how should you act, so that you can tolerate those who constantly surround you and the great, sluggish, cruel world, which has been laying eggs on your ideas from the beginning?!

More and more people are playing deceptive games with you, manipulably unnoticed, and - I fear - what is absolutely irreversible cannot be reversed, no matter how much loyalty or all-conquering humility may struggle. You have turned to spiral paths of dislike - not only out of necessity, but because life with a capital letter, of which you are unfortunately a part, has brought you this way.

You could barely control your inner, untamed instinct; your hurt childish self-esteem suffered geller wounds in seconds. No matter how much you tried to rein in your scheming genies - I fear - they would be the ones who would trip you up first, or just keep kicking you further down the donkey ladder of existence as they please - your harmful demons are struggling because they are rootless, and you cannot understand the Morse code ciphers of the Self that has not yet betrayed you. Fate is now an even more lurking beast into whose eyes the uncertain present forces you to look wolfishly several times a day!

WE OFTEN THINK OUR LIVES ARE DIFFICULT, BUT THEY ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO THE STRUGGLES
FACED BY THE PEOPLE OF PALESTINE.

GORDIAN KNOTS OF SHIPWORTHY SOULS


Perhaps it is no longer possible, and there cannot remain such a restless, compromising night, when my soul, wandering like a free bird, would leave the prison cage of my straggling, shipwrecked body and set out on a journey; because I ponder a lot, I grind my own tightrope-walking, eternal-childish nerve: how and how could I have come to trust people who, with a light wave, tricked me over the fence and I have not looked back now, to see if that unfortunate chubby Don Quixote who didn't give a **** about the dog, who I am, lives or dies in this melancholy, indifferent decade?!

My increasingly stubborn, firm silence may still contain aborted fever dreams, if gold could be pressed from the treasure-seeking soul, perhaps even ordinary people could be much more satisfied and richer - of course, if we do not count the exaggerated outlook on life of the material mass consumer society. Halfway between petty soul traps, only one counterargument may remain in my favor: somewhere, perhaps, a little hope for me to still want to live may still be stirring in the envelope-dark seas of placentas.

Now it doesn't hurt to take care of myself, because no one else will. The world is now increasingly the domain of creeping ****, and of more base, two-faced worms, on a secondary, dispensable basis. Their stinking vulture-dog-mouths deliberately absorb the creative-inspiring treasures of culture and knowledge, which are then condemned to destruction by a whole series of brainwashed sermons, so that we never have to think about it. We gradually throw away the distinguishable quality marks of our personal humanity; Fate casts its concentric circles one after another, like a large fishing net over our unsuspecting, naive heads; the eternal baton of life and death - perhaps - is often one and the same!