Layers of annual rings

  

All I feel now is: the noose is tight, slimy-raw amniotic membrane. A handful of my life is caught in the unexpected vice of Being. Without clouds, my life slowly separates, like a circle of congealed raindrops bursting open, help-falling lips.

I look at the laughable life of some people, and with pitiful silence they only answer, in sympathy-renunciation: Oh! - Just unravel the cruel childhood, serial wolf fights, which is hardly visible, because it is hidden in the depths of my wounded and driven soul.

New and new layers of age rings and prison walls are slowly being added to my face, because there was hardly anyone who could have known me for myself. - Now what could I do with my years, which were starting to expire, with burning memory footprints, which with a silent desire carved for themselves an aching otherworldly wound-bed in the pile-depths of past times.

I am thirty-seven and a half years old, now like an octopus, it silently locks onto my soul and shows color. I always have less and less to do with the past and the future. If somewhere, at some point, everything will fall apart and I won't be able to confess or love anymore. Surely my firm right could not even be sufficient for happiness!

Some great, menacing alarm is now crowding in draughty men's heads; not just cultural vandalism, but stomach-churning propaganda, lip service. Open wounds that have been hidden for a long time can open up in anyone.

There are deliberately too few exclamation marks and sky-high question marks these days. Both the swamp-smelling, indifferent culture and Minden are in sticky straitjackets.

More and more wasted years come upon us one after the other; producing the same fashion monkeys who have already won quite a few awards and recognitions. Be careful! Maybe if the power of free and independent thought is quickly lost, even the spark-igniting mind from within is easily depopulated in the dullness of the spirit!