BALANCE IN THE SCALES

The Present hardly rocks us like a rocking cradle, our wasteful pasts have been twisted in the same way by the Hangman-Time. The dust of the roads, just like the footprints written in the sand of our never-happened love, seemed to have been washed away by the forgettable memory; it's as if we played our feelings at some pathetic, idiotic card party, a petty, manipulable game of chance.

Our insecurities rumble all the time in our wandering Souls like beaten dogs; without the will to adjust our steps, we just let the actions happen to us, the actions that we are ready to commit, over which we have no further influence, since they can happen on their own at any time. The sluggish curse of pent-up exposure hovers above us like the sword of Damocles, and it can strike down at any time in a careless moment after sixty years.

Existence narrows like a razor's edge, on which even the shaky tight-rope dancers who want to balance still balance, because we have to, unless we want the ground to slip completely from under our feet. Seasoned with self-pity, battered self-pity, he often stops and commands, acts immobile; guilty grace and forgiveness are ready to snap at any time on stripped nerves. - The eternal recurring questions that remain unanswered are still wandering in the darkening forest of our lives, the sinful uncertainty of this world - he is afraid - no longer lets go.

The tiny mosaics believed to be innocent, just like broken flower pots - let's see - will later be put back together and crushed, as the reward-cup of deserved joy is also broken into small, vile pieces. Then, when we take stock as a final reckoning of what we leave behind at all, it will be a painful realization to realize that we have shrunk into points shrinking into the distance!