I didn't imagine the great Life to be like this: it didn't break any hope, opportunity, or a good-sounding hint, because more and more people are saying these days that it is more useful to always adjust to the steps of others. Everyone is gradually slipping into the cacophony of great repetitions. Because even the sacred joys of getting to know each other are always missing something;

A complaint of fate that can be kissed off from the ashen palms of Angels, so that even the minor and major soul-blemishes can be easily repaired and comforted at least a little. In the airless vacuum spaces of entanglements, like an entrepreneurial craftsman who cannot receive an order, a project, or a well-sounding tender, since other bigger sharks keep snatching away the abundant profits, we dig our own, gaping graves with stubborn and determined expertise, when the eternal candles will also be on sale as the Day of the Dead approaches.

In the visceral ecstasy-cancellations of the inner self, we are always a little inclined to intentionally give up a more personal, more intimate, candlelit, romantic encounter, when we could even easily find each other, since we are truly terrified of lasting, overt humiliation. Clinging to the consciously forgettable memory-rings, we would still expect the smaller, more naïve, and ridiculous surprises of Being; just as in our adolescence, which can be increased to the point of being disturbed, when many of us realized that growing up is always a painful thing.

The bitter-lipped, dilatable cheerfulness that a fringe-haired Tarzan flashed mainly at model-shaped ladies; the sufficiently foolish magic of this current third century is spreading widely, among humanity, which is also selfish-possessive in its nature.

I am not only on the best path for me, I am one with the path I on.
The inertia of my being is deeply ingrained in this quantum field. The particles of my atoms drive my hungry esoteric will.
My purpose and meaning never fades, I am one with the matrix, I am free in this cage.

The rusty lock on each heart-petal swung unusually, as if everyone now carried several keys, digital padlocks, with them on purpose, because they can never give the vile current of unpredictable fate what it deserves. They prove unable to swallow and spit out compromising, redeemable dreams and desires. Life only passes by, almost endlessly, because perhaps we all lived and existed a little with cowardice. A discarded, neglected fragment of memory drifts by in vain, the spoken "I love you!" that led to the fatal breakup before the wedding.

No one can figure it out, perhaps they haven't wanted to for a long time, what could have gone wrong in a sacred relationship that was nicknamed lasting, spiced with everything, promising immortality?! There have always been and will always be answers, the simple excess weight of forced steps keeps pulling back its leaden limbs.

After all, it is impossible to stoop to the point of questioning the now happy wife, who gave birth to three children at once, with an open judge-prosecutor confession, as if she could have discharged her social obligation at the same time. There is no need to wait for mousetrap confessions; the stoic indifference builds a mandatory defensive wall out of compromises, with which everyone tries to keep everyone away from themselves first and foremost, so that no one can be treated with dignity even by chance. to question.

There is nothing to take back from the sluggish yield of compromises that seek to belittle, nor to repent with sincerity. Because everyone is now a coward and doubly unfaithful in one person. Even the one who once truly loved takes on the yoke of vulnerability!

Unfortunately, faces are no longer as helpful and empathetic as they once were; they have become distorted, crusted over with the grotesqueries of everyday petty exhibitionist nonsense of Existence. Once again, we are at the point where we are faced with the question of who has how much, and who can chop and mow down how much. Unexpected worms and beetles emerge in connection with each human soul, which is also a bit sociopathic, because we always have to bargain with our drunken, weeping self.

A deep feeling of nausea and disgust, suppressed in the fever of acquaintance, prevails, and because the relationship with every cozy Mediterranean-style family is a bit fragile, mainly because of the afternoon siesta, dolce vita. Unfortunately, the ancestral bird of unhappiness is always a blood-******* leech, a bat, while in the dreams of the romantic, unattainable, yellow, *****-smelling cuckoo's eggs; because often, inevitably, people stumble upon small, seemingly indestructible cockroaches and beasts in everyday life, whom it would be better to avoid and not keep in mind.

A surprising number of people have been forced to let go of the years of commies that were ordered to be quiet. We now carry within us our intentional carnivorous trap, from which we cannot escape; no one can be nobler or better than anyone else, only a prey animal that can be hunted down, crippled by work, and eviscerated; the blind guides of Existence-fate are no longer the donkey-steps, - but much more manipulative protections, pitiful commodity interests, which are placed in give-and-take positions, packed, and put here and there. It is necessary to beware step by step these days, so that we can still pay the quota fee with dignity and pomp for our eternal childish credulity.

Just as eating is the test of pudding, we can't really do anything with our deliberately inward-flowing, draughty tears. Our residual, mushy, pathetic life is divided into three hundred and sixty-five tiny particles not only by Time or the calendar - but every day has that cheesy, almost shameful story to the core, according to which: we should adjust better to our alternate endings. Love ready to unfold would draw in vain increased comfort if there were no roots, seeds-germs left from which the whole emotion would sprout; why does the delicious roasted coffee, which we brew in the dim light of dawn, also have the smell of burnt *****?!

Because we must naturally inhabit the accumulations of lasting annoyances, so that later they can't say about us: "Well! This was also that kind of person!" As if the spiritual-physical connection had already - in many cases - finally come to an end, i.e. a person must always compromise with himself first and foremost, and bargain at the same time.

He often stumbles or gets lost in flooded jars if he is not paying enough attention, and because sooner or later the body also stretches itself towards the horizon of Nothing. The goals and planned ideas seem to testify to conscious helplessness; why should the disillusionment nicknamed permanent be skinned when there is still usable emotion there?! A state of voluntary death also outlines the order of the living, where they can go. From inside, the World already seems like a torn Band-Aid.

The spiraling snakes would now like to devour the entire World; nuclear fission may increase the actual value of mortalities in the eyes of "some" - of course as unnecessary collateral losses -, a white condensation trail inevitably passes over a person's head, left by some luxury private plane while reaching Earth orbit. The rule of the constantly suspicious sentries that remain open still returns now and then.

At the last moment, perhaps after five hundred years, the Cyclops-brained titans enriched with testosterone, who have deliberately forgotten the proper manners, the conditions of behavioral codes, the eloquent ins and outs of compliments, will also become extinct; anniversary rings are driven through broken or white diamond wedding rings, because fewer and fewer of them can only truly experience the feelings of the Universe, which alone reside unnoticed in the depths of beating hearts.

They grow respectable beer bellies not only It's pounding, but it's quite a lot, gentlemen Pál Pató, and while the great gentleman's party-dario, bolsoly-babysitter is going on, it's as if everyone is no longer able to bear the enriched, concentrated half-hearted appearance-happiness.

- The city of Nineveh, which has long surrendered to partying, is thus becoming an increasingly sinkable Atlantis, a tiny island of nowhere, which at any moment - if they're not careful - can be swept away by the moving Danube. It would be better to head straight in the opposite, more vulnerable directions, because now everyone is considered a bit of a good actor in fair-boy comedies; what is failure and success at the same time was actually a lesson and a make-up exam! One day - in any case - he will be forced to take off his mask and become a shameless clown!

In newer, modern-digital ages - it may seem more and more so - brainwashed thoughts are being driven into the wall, and they are being expelled like snot, because the hated counter-argument can also splash back at any time if one is not careful. In newer modern ages, the persistently nauseating flattery can rather give birth to massive ***** than to chemically pure *******, massively praising the law-makers. The given era regularly snaps the ant-men, like an unwanted cigarette ****, saying; they will be just fine - even among themselves -, they will be an ashtray.

Because the newest digital ages, like strings, bind and weave through the lives of simple, melancholy average people, like some everyday, negligible little package, not to fall apart, because the rhythmic intoxication of croaking frogs is clearly audible. Because - I fear - even sincere confidences may have less and less room among merely conscious, unsettled cell-molecules.

- A person would become a collapsed block if he constantly cried on the secret channels of tabloid media about who managed to successfully **** how much? How did he gain weight, who earned more? Maybe sometimes it is better to be consciously present and permanent loneliness trapped within four walls, not disturbed by a smartphone, smart TV, or laptop.

What is the better solution: social loneliness next to someone whose body and mind can still tolerate it, or to consciously chase away and exclude everything and everyone from yourself?! Many useless, yet essential, questions to be decided. In the flight of a kite, one should still catch a few more bold moves before the big leap into the phlegmatic infinity.