When did you stop asking the question Why? You used to ask it all the time. You didn’t know how tired you would become from not finding answers. The depth of the rabbit hole — what did it do to you? Now, is it not a good thing to grow up, leave things be? Why what?

You want to let go, but you don’t know what to let go of. Sounds crazy. Perhaps it’s even more strange that you don’t really know where to go. Well, deep inside you know. Let yourself evolve. Stay calm. Let your heart churn and turn.

As if thirsty for chaos. You know that this calm in which you’re embedded for the time being, is not the calm that you need, not the calm to come; it’s not THE calm. You don’t want a pacifier and you don’t want chaos. You just wanna be able to see things for what they are.

As if astray, free-floating, not knowing what is up or what is down, your actions based on hunches, guessing. Having said that, seemingly the more astray you are, the more you are cared for. You feel; you think you know, but what you feel is not what you are.

Things are not as complicated as they seem. What makes them complicated is you. Because you, involuntarily, alter or encrypt every little piece of information so that it fits your little box. It’s not that you don’t wanna see the truth. You’re just not able to deal with it just yet.

Something real, something good. I guess you recognize it’s so by your reaction to it: you reject it, don’t want it; it hurts, feels wrong. But it doesn’t bend; it’s steadfast, unwavering. You’re weak. You waver. So you come to cling to it. You don’t want it, but you want it.

Like magnets attracting all kinds of junk; rejecting each other. Starting to see how repelled you are from others, how you’re off track, in the periphery. Almost starting to see that you would like to be closer. That your opposites are your equals. Step down. Merge.

Harder than rock, more consuming than fire, less willing to bend than the autobahn. And it’s so shrewd; perhaps that’s the worst thing about it. You never know where you have it. You think you’re up to something good — think again. Your ego — it’s killing you. Softly; but no.

It came to a point where you felt that each day was cloned. A copy of the day before. Repetition. Small alterations, but nothing more. But you realized that the monotony you saw was false. And you knew, as if in a dream, that everything you see is new. Life or death really.