Petty loans of being

 
On me - who knows why? -, blind, unfortunate clashes rage on and on. For me, simple complicated things turn out to be ill-fated. At any age, momentary, fleeting enthusiasm is sweet to me.

It is an increasingly superficial, increasingly worse fact that the inexorable law of the grotesque, brainwashed Reality is hidden in the atoms of evil interest cells. Before I even want to do a stubborn act, the inevitable, cowardly intention rises up in me.

If it fails, even the subject's right to legitimate revenge can turn into vicious, vicious hatred. Underneath me, in the web of stretched minutes every day, the ordinary, healthy self-awareness, if it still exists, breaks. It must have been bad for a long time when the simplified Sisyphus stone had weight and guilt.

Still, I say it: it's wasteful and now it's bad that I have to get by on the ruins of everyday life in some other way! To my hardened, yet mortal heart, all imagined and created nightmarish dreams will be unfaithful. And I know: the One-Someone can still search, search, and is just waiting, soaring with burning romances, to surely find my onion-skin nothingness.

I keep bumping into fateful situations announced as unobstructed at the edge of my existence. Even now, in the crossfire of fierce and merciless glances, I am a blatant target for "some".

That Marcangol can still have a serious inferiority complex in a cheap pursuit mania. Although I didn't ask for the points of unfortunate Alamusians. "My fate seems to have played a childish prank on me." Sometimes, if I gather all my soul strength, my determined will, I would even voluntarily return the petty loans of Being!