Sunday, August 07, 2022 22:52

One kilogram of love

Liberation

Liberation

I’ve never ever heard someone say “I’m too happy! I’m too rich! I live too long!” etc. Everybody runs, struggles, prays deities, buys and struggles for a better/happier/fulfilled/richer life. What for?

It is forgotten to feel the peace in the chaotic and supersonic running to achieve it. It is stepped over happiness without even noticing it, while trying to find it. It is passed through life in vain while trying to find its sense and enjoy it. And if we finally get to that point where we have too much, we must give back? Is it just borrowed? For every moment of happiness, you must pay two sadness? You must ponder how you spend beautiful moments and how deep your hand reaches into the pocket of joy? But, above all, can we get to “too much” with our eternally unsatisfied and eager for more natures? You have a bank account. You want a car. You got a car? You want a villa! And the wife back home, is her enough?

Why do you fight your lungs out for a certain thing, you finally get it, and then you want more? Why does it loses its charm, for which you struggled so? And then, to want more, you have to know how much you have, you must have a measurement unit. “How much do you love me?” “Two kilos eight hundred, my dear.. more, or is it OK like this?”

Why you must run for everything? Why must you struggle? To search for? Why not stay still and let the planet spin around until you reach on Champs Élysées? Let them and they spin around you. I often have the feeling that we are like sheets printed out by a giant Xerox, to which was longer forgotten to change the ink. Pale copies of what we would want to be, what we could have been. I do not know whether the color ink ended right at me, to see them all in black. Maybe there’s a trail of red left, nothing more.

The life I have now is enough. I’m not looking for more, I do not want more, I do not dream of more. I sought a person pulled out with an empty toner. To be a blank page. To be able to write write start to end. To be able to mix my trace of red with it and live a vie en rose. I relieved myself of looking around, of running, of desiring, of dreaming of. The life I have now is enough.

All that matters now are two searches, two questions: I do you good or evil? You raise me up or lower me down? You are my world. You’re in your world and my world. I turned the back to all the other worlds, with kilograms and meters.

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