Convince others that one sees the world exactly as it is, rotten and unreedemed, and understands that one will change nothing of it not even our aging bodies.
Yet believe in the secrecy of ones soul that one can improve the world, even the neighbor of stage who sneers and cackles when she sees you.
Make her beautiful like politics, noble like justice, and generous like life. All turn in circle, so and how little it matters if she is vicious, if one is vicious, if the world is old, because all turn and stop not. Otherwise it’s death, the death people loathe or welcome, which despite everything never misses its secret rendez vous and lurks in silence, prompt to gather someone, anyone in its arms at the least excessive sign. The anguish of being no more is banal, one wears it on the forehead like an invisible tag:”will die one day”, and engraved in the feisty spirit:”as late as possible.”
Nothing is to be done, one is born mortal. Nevertheless, everyone precipitates ones life differently. Some people save and manage life like the budget of a country with an imminent crisis, others consume life intensely and fast as if they have only few minutes left. Most people, however, either resort not to think about it or emulate someone else life.
Still none of it matters, life holds everyone in the palm of her hand, and magnanimously question ones existence. She tickles and throws ones vulnerability in the face by simply asking: “who are you?”, and “what are you doing here on earth?”