CALCULATION OF THE SOUL

It's as if the restrained wisdom of distances is emerging more and more sharply; the time calculation of our years, like the tinkling, tiny glass bells - they move from one decade to the next in a measured way. In a cascade of complex Soul-echoes, as if our existing words were also rolling away like pearls of truth. Over time, in the wake of our hesitant, limping, limping walks, even the worn basalt stones begin to tell stories very quietly, so that only we alone can listen to what the past continues to talk about.

The humiliated, self-pitying self-consciousness drags behind it with its rusty bucket the blind hope of a century of yew life, that Life still had to be continued tooth and nail, even though there are days when the hesitant effort is in vain. It is as if a person could simultaneously prove unable to outgrow his own selfish, tyrannical pettiness; he would constantly lick the cage-wounds of his infidelities. It would be nice to take to the wings with the free and independent instinct of a migratory bird, clinging to the cotton candy of a cloud-continent and not even stop - it is possible - only when the Earth is already visible as a tiny little sphere on the pitch-black curtain of the cosmos.

Deliberately misinterpreted gestures, tiny movements, as if they were only conscious mental geometries of misunderstandings, from which it is increasingly difficult to escape. Plenty of annual rings purposefully hide the essence; Between birth and death there is a delicate balance, a significant but all the more unstable thread, which is difficult, painful, and difficult to even walk along with heart and soul. The guarantee of time, which gives rank, has been written on the human face; "All the best!" sounds like a misguided chant. have a nice day!" also a cheap win!