With clouds above and ground underneath, I’m always in the in-between. The in-between, that solemn place that seems so fixed, yet moves at the fastest pace. The ground is shifting, the clouds are drifting and I go forward by default.
As if by default were no one’s fault…
Inaction smacks of cowardice yet rashness is foolish. And thus between the heavens and my tomb, I have to find my way, which started, unasked for, in the womb. Time and time again, it all seems like a scam. No choice but to enter this world, no choice but to leave it and in between: the miserable deception of an abundance of choices, the impression of a free will constrained by so many circumstances that the mere notion of freedom seems laughable. Haplessness and helplessness. Eppur si muove.
Headlights of cars with no particular destination, people crossing the road. Blue lights flashing, sirens howling. People jumping off the towers, screaming. Crying loved ones on the phone. All lines disconnected, the network broken down. A system, incoherent, but functioning still. Up until now…
Eppur si muove.
A world disjointed. Heads and hearts and voices, all thinking, all feeling, all speaking, yet no connection in sight. Signs missed, a sense of belonging yearned for, but never reached. The tragedy of a people interlinked but always a mystery to each other. Hiding intellects, sentiments not talked about for fear of public shaming by a public that, if honesty were to prevail, it turns out more or less all feels the same. Taboos and style. All form, no substance. Is that the human condition or rather our wish to be less human and more of less? Less prone to mistakes, to misjudgments, less pervious to attacks? No one feels they’ve found their place. Eppur si muove.
Droughts and deluges. Fires and the bitter cold. Famine and obesity.
We’ve all got our burden, we all think we’re the only ones.
A plane flies over my head. My wine glasses rattle: a passing train. It’s all so suffocating, I’m petrified. The paint on my walls comes undone.
Inaction takes the same toll on one’s surrounding as the wrong action.
I may do nothing; eppur si muove.