On the doorstep

  
The Ending Time has been chasing me lately. First it tore out my tangled, constantly panting hair follicles in knots, then it burnt the fields of my lush fur to a sterile parlague. My years are stacked like rings in the trunks of trees, like rings of a Skafander in the desolate and homeless cosmic dark. Scattered are intimate, friendly societies, human-centered texts. I tried to find meaning and purpose in the fact that after so many gallows and gallows-trials I am still alive and well.

Happiness, the petty lack of routine, still lurches on the doorstep: 'loves, loves not' - its romantic mysteries would be so good to unravel. Balsam-scented, precious eyes, brown and shining. - Behind every cracked mirror is another yawning, grotesque-faced Janus.

Nodding secretly, I hope one day my deserved happiness will find its way to me.

Parting parting words, winking glances softened into memories, I wonder where they were when they were supposed to comfort, encourage, ground the holy, persistent will in me that had become a castaway - the conviction that sooner or later everyone will make sense! I often ran up against insurmountable walls, for no one could be direct enough or willing enough to warn me of the obstacles that defined my existence.

I've tripped myself up a million times in a thousand changing shapes. I am reminded of my falling hair only by yellowed photographs. The organs are all physical and therefore visible and interpretable. But the complex, intricate formulas of the soul must always be responsibly dismantled, so that what - anciently - has been broken, damaged, will limp on again in its disfigurement as One-entirely!