Out of reach

Out of reach

In some way asking for help, we sometimes enjoy to exercise the ambiguous power of our disease, which may be the easiest truth even if our ideas are scary and make us suffer: still a protection against life as it is, often without hope and with a lot of pain, not even allowing the satisfaction of total madness and kaos. We may find it provoking that we should choose interpretations of life which contain some degree of love and dignity and hope, realistically to be achieved, and we may feel that this life gives us the right to judge life as such with our disease, which is only Natures judgment upon life for which we have no responsibility. On the outside disease often looks like a great man which we should fear, inside, however, often a small child who is neglected and crying but whom we will not help, maybe because we have not got the nerves and patience to see the metamorphosis of our fear turning into a crying child, that have not learned to speak, maybe because we want to keep our fear, maybe because we fear our laughter at that state where Nature or morals expect us to cry. The most scary thing is to be reminded of the most scary disease; here there is no crying or speaking, however someone staring and the sounds of blinking eyes.