A LONELY STRUGGLE

A thick, mole-dark, haunted night after midnight. On veil-dark eyelashes, iron-heavy, hibernating dream-walking stretches and spreads. He doesn't even realize that it's the next day, and soon the pitiful, sane robot-work will start again, deliberately mind-numbing, endless series.

Life, like some big press, deliberately crushes, squeezes, crushes under itself insidiously first only the shipwrecked human souls, later also the beating hearts, which once cherished the love of Allness and cosmic instincts.

Every once in a while, a stray firefly enters the alley-smelling, dim light of street lamps, and in the discharge of the incandescent light bulb, it destroys itself. Supposedly only for half a day, if they live searching for their true partner. Shapeless, scary monster-shapes, golem-waterstones are created by the shell of shadows. He will never be able to let go of the long-suffering pressure of everyday life, since man proves to himself every day how much he is a mortal speck of dust and a vulnerable orphan-infinity.

It would be nice to hold friendly hands, as if they were cups lined with petals, where even the vulnerable can find safety and shelter again. Neither empathy-tolerance nor sincere sympathy should fall out between delicate, tingling fingers. Instead of the seemingly selfless will of convincing regrets, one should relearn and feel the trust in the dignity of the hug.

Now chained stars are anxious at the gates of the night-dark cosmos, and perhaps they themselves are waiting for the falling comet that promises salvation, or the tamed evening star; the common man is now struggling between thin frames, worn down by decades, to achieve just like anything, which he knows is unattainable anyway, since dreams are no longer invented for him.