Category: Weekly state (Page 2 of 23)

Behold, a man!

Diogenes might have been right after all.

Wishing to fly without any feathers, I look at the seemingly superior creatures that roam the sky. Now here I stand, plucked and ridiculous on two feet. I wonder what the desire for leaving the ground really means, where it comes from.

Condemned by gravity, forced to walk upright. In an evolutionary sense, quite unstable. Birds, much like us, are bipeds as well. They even look ridiculous doing it. But at least they can leave the ground and defecate on us to mock our human-focused sense of superiority.

There I stand, plucked and always in the reach of a bird showing its superiority. Jealous of not being able to leave this plain, not for a few minutes. So I must be content, doomed by evolution.

In the end, Plato should have been more careful with his words. But the desire to have feathers never really vanished.

So the only thing I can do right now is to imagine, closing my eyes and listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s music. You know which one.

Everything I need fits into a small cube.

It shifts in all directions, discreetly as to not awaken those oblivious to my mission. The cube signifies my limits but offers vast opportunities. It gives me borders and an uncompromising view to material things I can take. Once filled, it provides me with autarkical freedom, if I wish to take it.

My cube never leaves my side, it is watched by me at all times. I leave it to rest only in confined and safe spaces. It takes on mileage, just like me, but it doesn’t age.

It glides on wheels, much smoother than me. But we become the same, silent and waiting, for whatever there is to come.

When the wheels leave the ground.

I am the space between seconds and I hate the rush.

Humans try to decipher and make sense of things. They aim to have everything in categories, putting things, emotions and even other people in order. Even time cannot escape the seemingly intrinsic desire to be cut and chopped into digestible pieces.

How much I love the space on a classic watch between the seconds. The indicator jumps. It is one second now and suddenly, just as you’re reading this, the next. It’s hard to fight this machine.

In fact, you’ll never win.

I am trying to fight it, foolish as I am. I wrangle with it to be faster and slower, wishing for the indicator to jump faster, to salvage me of my burden. To go slower, to savour the moment. But many times your dear Papa has mentioned that this is noble but futile, foolish.

So I keep my time, every second. As a reminder that I am not in charge. Time is my master and so is it yours. We can be meticulous as much as we want but the indicator will jump.

Will you sit in between the space with me and watch it jump, again?

I witness astronomical dusk and still the artificial light is winning.

Within twilight I operate, cloud as my pillow. I can go higher and lower, within these limits light is at my mercy. I can decide between evening and night, waking hours and sleep.

With the tremendous power over earths rotation I can become drunk on might. In the end, gravity is passing me by as a former oppressor. Golden hour is an eternity for me, as long as I can move my cloud.

At 18 degrees my power starts to fade. Nautical dusk has taken over and gold fades to blue which fades to black. Twilight is finite and my eyes loose their gleam.

Tormented by the realisation of my flagrant fatuousness, I chase the last rays of red and orange. I aim to go higher but gravity laughs at me. I have encountered reality.

Astronomical and nautical, I am dusk.