Everyone will want to feed you that story. Darkness to light, weakness to strength, broken to whole. As if you were a scattered jigsaw puzzle whose pieces had been blown away on one fine winter evening.

"I've to tie up the loose ends", you tell yourself. " I'm tired of being a sheet of blotting paper that soaks everything in and later doesn't know what to unload and what to keep."

Silence descends upon you for a time, a profound silence. A silence of one who has taken cover in a dark place, curled up all the edges and tucked them under.

You understand Sartre, that man is condemned to be free because once thrown into the world he's responsible for everything he does but you don't understand, in this game you're playing, you can't win. Some kinds of failure are just better than other kinds, that's all.

And then you lean against the wall, knees drawn up to your chest. The door of your balcony swings open and shuts again with the breeze. Crickets chirps outside. A mortar smoothly grinds down your consciousness. Perhaps the metaphor of "A boot grinding on human face forever" as prophesied by Orwell.

With astonishment, I ask how you deal with those terrors. Your trademark smile plays around your lips and it parts open slightly, "Because my friend, only a man who has no conscience or goodness, doesn't suffer."

14.06.21