Something lurks, a strong amber vortex sips and snorts, ******* out our life force; the remainder of our time doomed to mortality. Our shipwrecked days are dwindling at insane supersonic speed. As if it were no longer worth looking for new uninhabited Odysseus shores, where an oasis of peace and tranquility reigns unceasingly. The modern mass-man seems to be deliberately rushing towards his own uncertain Destiny, and does not intend to stop for a moment to ponder.

On the often merciless swing of life, everyone clings to the future in this way, it almost doesn't matter, since mortality was already decided at the moment of birth, so if we consider it unique, unrepeatable and finished. Fate is now certainly insurmountable and it is not really worth making peace with it, - thirst grows greedily and willfully in those who still choose the bare, visceral life. Whether life is a dream or a secret borderline of half-awakeness, Time unfortunately does not heal in the end, at most it can only alleviate the stigma wounds we have suffered.

- It would be nice to have a secret door cut into the wallpaper, where we can safely hide, deliberately selfishly tearing ourselves apart, and no one can ask meaningless questions about why we stayed inside, deep down we are all a little eternal children against absolute, strict adults. Sooner or later, the trace of grief is drawn on faces; let us still experience a pause of rest, even if - often the monotony and the curse of solid indifference flatten us.

The angel you once called your One-Beloved fell by deceiving himself through the Universe he believed to be immortal; her knees were scraped by the hurtful Martian ****, while her winged, sandaled ankles were adorned with an attractive tattoo as hieroglyphs. Her radiant star teeth also fell out one by one thanks to the laser teeth whitening he was so proud of and could be proud of. She hid his sincere heartbeat, because he could slightly believe that he had built an eternal city of sincere feelings in her heart.

Her inner gut instincts crowned her queen, but not for long, because where unfair possession emerged, the cosmic radiance woven from the soul could be felt less and less, when soul and heart became one. Her bronze-brown skin, caressed by the exotic island of Bali, was covered with sun-spotted scars; he thought that if he lost herself in the love she imagined to be immortal, you could later forgive her selfish tyranny to the true flesh, but he failed to steal herself back into you.

- Perhaps his only problem was that he always compared herself to others, made herself dependent on others, while he often forgot about herself and his personal differences of opinion. It would have been good to lie down in the rich creative filling with sincere will into the depths of harmony-silence and there to explore the primordial secrets of the soul with her heart's desire. - Later, perhaps she suspected that the permanent pit-abyss into which he voluntarily fell leads to a secret corridor-labyrinth, which everyone needs to cope with for themselves.

It is dangerous to investigate with suspicion not only the small, seemingly insignificant bagatelle secrets of the Universe - but also to observe from the secret corner of the eyes the apparent tricks of the present Reality as if nothing had happened. Blind luck can escape from the hands of a person who has started to get holes at any time; the momentary joy and happiness are so imperceptible, barely perceptible, like some strange, inexplicable series of states.

As soon as a person meets an individual who seems to many people, it is better to observe everything in detail; from the culture of debate to the logically constructed coordinate systems of reason. "Some" who are still driven from within by the greedy, visceral career appetite will fall into fertile traps, to spend more and more - hopefully - at the expense of others. Why did we have to experience that even the false sincerity of love, affection, and feelings can be replaced at any time, can be put into Procrustean beds?!

Increasingly, inevitable decades of unstable sandcastles may await us, which have neither end nor length, because in a somewhat nightmare-like way, one can imagine that one is spitting in one's face every second, and the universal **** is now less and less able to be wiped away. One always overdoes it, but at the same time pushes the degrees of misunderstanding too far, because the outside world no longer reacts to it as it should; empathy, tolerance, solidarity - I say so - have all degenerated into meaningless, shallow words. Instead of providing help, general A grimace turned into a raised eyebrow.

The smell of coffee makes you feel nauseous and nauseous, like it's another lice day that you have to start somehow!

Man - even if he tries to be careful - wears the tattooed black stripes of days and nights; he will notice that he falls back without a trace into the paradise of silent stealth, to remain a little invisible or even unnameable in semi-incognito. The total chaos of indefinability is now increasingly trying to become a part of conscious everyday life, but not for long.

That man is now increasingly surrounded by crooked, interrogating mirrors, which keep the vile cult of superficial, meaningless exhibitionism still trendy and fashionable. If necessary, if not permanently, a talkative, sloppy noise swirls. Being - often - is also a fussy, irresistible One, because the cobweb of conscious oblivion would surround it.

The busy, upside-down decade is also more likely to sharpen sword blades and train atomic bombs; no one remembered, perhaps didn't even really think about, the red buttons that would trigger, or even the snapping trap of parentheses. Only suspicion, the ancient suspicion lingers for a long time, like someone who has secretly stopped in the doorway of a deserted, garbage heap; a crypt-smelling, cadaverous shadow still looks back and forth. Because the game of life seems to have been arranged on the chessboard of birth, and the straw puppets that can be pulled only hang here and there between the strings of Time, which they cannot yet understand.

Man remains more and more closed in on himself, because he knows exactly that out there in the World - fear - that with education and professional knowledge it is not certain that he would be able to do anything, although he may know: but it would be good to shake off all unnecessary ******* from himself completely, but his soul cannot open its rusty keys anytime.

As if a misunderstood, caressing-whining moment were reflexively trying to cover up the clear, tangible confusion of memories, even the forced immobility is increasingly obvious, but malleable. The entire outspoken holy will is merely a childish, weeping insubstantiality. Cognition is - from now on - only possible instinctively.

The unpredictable, unexpected turns of tragic Fate; an accident or tragic loss; the rebellious devotion of misunderstood actions. As if Nirvana-nothing were only the perfect lack of completeness; no one takes the masses of people on earth as a waste, like a pillar, around Atlas's neck like Sisyphus; thus the waves of sluggish indifference come and go unnoticed over one's head. Why is it necessary to cling to waiting or to possible fulfillment at all?!

Although - perhaps - it involves stigma-pains, soul-thorns, it is still better to openly say what the burning, restless heart wants to speak in its inner shell. The secret laws of existence could not be deciphered with the logic of an aerial gymnast; one could search here, or on Cape Verde, or in some icy Arctic Circle, because the inner Odyssey-restlessness is what boils and enlivens the marriage of one's excited blood molecules in its eternal insatiability. Often the ruthlessness believed to be solid is both useless and merciless if one does not pay enough attention to it.

The vomiting, petty tragedy of moods is an endlessly sorted, useless debris, which perhaps even the One-Beloved cannot possibly embrace and understand as complete perfection; it is increasingly difficult to elicit even the most profound compassion from total strangers! A stray, hygienic heart attack gets a complaint-euphoria!

It seeps into human flesh, like chitin armor, because what started out beautiful and noble is constantly being torn apart; first love and only then the Universe believed to be immortal. For the secret, sacred-vowed eternal smile of two eternal bodies, as in the labyrinth of ineffable pleasure, forgetting about homesickness, unconscious floating, lasting weightlessness-intoxication begins. We will be doves and pigeons in the wake of the moon-spring, who simultaneously hold olive branches and perhaps rings, as circular, indestructible symbols of infinity.

We let each other into the home of our souls confidentially, because unnecessary words were not so necessary; a kiss caressed juicy fruits between sun-fluffy lips. The campfires of our hesitant hands are still faithfully preserved - even after twenty or so years - by the rays of trust instilled in sincerity. - Between our fingers, but often for moments of rest, only the sand of our Time has been spun through, with which we wrote footprints on the beach. The summery, light wind occasionally catches in our capricious seasonal words spoken to each other.

Like when we hunted for shells in the heart of the oceans, and the horn armor jealously guarded a true pearl. As if after so many years, we are still only learning, groping for the concepts of the uncertain Fate, which was intended for us alone as a gift; as if we were forever moving away but also approaching each other in rhythmic beats. We are forced to latently put to sleep our feelings for each other, since the breakup - who knows why? - is still hanging in the air. From our busy lives, repeated memories emerge!

The honest-true would still burn in man - even if only half, or in captivity of crossroads. He should not give up or let go of his convictions, wherever this unfair, wicked-comic milieu may carry him. His eternally restless, petty, eternally peaceless soul would be so good for some kind of momentary redemption, from which he could still build and perhaps start a new life. Bars and cages stretch around him, while his constant kilometers of walking are tied to the shackles of his sickly legs, or even a vile physical disease.

- It is known: a hundred, and a hundred years quickly pass and where does Zhuangzi's imaginary dream of the fulfillment of the happiness he has found, like a kind of Nirvana-idea striving for perfection, remain? He bows his forehead in repentance before his distorted reflection in the mirror; like a sinking Saturn waiting for the mortal Jericho trumpets of doom to ring into his deliberately deaf ears; he is seized by a consuming guilt that in a given situation he did not dare, perhaps did not want to act.

Man often stands hesitantly on an empty horizon, because he feels that he should turn his life, which is rather doomed to mortality, back into non-existence; he sees daily how the World dismantles, destroys itself, crumbles to pieces. The Soul, like a secret, special mirror, can take on a new body in someone else, the metamorphoses of immortal Beings are greeted in a single movement, or in the comfort of embraces, as when the corpus turns into a silent, echoing cave, where the seeds of instinct are still created and conceived.

Because sooner or later man deliberately retreats towards his own future; he is unable to do anything with uncertainty; to formulate, to understand the hidden Morse codes of reason. - The snarling Cerberus jaws of beasts can rarely be closed forever by the historical century!

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!

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!