I love my island.

Set in a big ocean with little to no waves, surrounded by fish and octopuses, it sits peacefully. From the banks of my wheat fields I can see far. Other islands, cliffs, distant lands. I am content on my island, I find myself making peace.

I have found that I am the maker of my destiny, of my surroundings. Whatever I touch, falls apart of is erected. I have built the tower on my island with my hands. I am keeping my cows and my sheep. I feed the fish so that the fish feed me.

My tiny harbour welcomes my friend, for whenever we are far we have the chance to be close. We look out on the sea together, the island flickering in the light of the campfires and torches. When you think about it, it is not hard to forget about life beyond that island.

I create away. Just for a moment, I will be here.

I am a hermit. I have become reclusive.

What do the birds think when I stare at them from my point of view, bound to earth by my featherless, fleshy arms? “Behold – A Man!”, I imagine the birds having a Diogenesian running joke about us. Then I remember that birds probably have no understanding of ancient greek philosophy. In the end, I let them fly.

Strolling down the alley, faced with the dilemma of once again choosing which way to go at the crossroads, I cannot help myself but keep trotting down. I could slow down, I could command my feet to even stop moving. In the end, I let them walk.

The cold wind blows into my face. I cringe and put my shoulders up to protect my neck. My eyes start to water a bit, the nose starts to run. I could get out a tissue and wipe it away. In the end, I let it run.

I am sitting on this bench and watch the people passing by, I watch the dogs pee onto the lanterns. Conversations enter my ear, trigger a reaction in my brain, only to disappear again with the humans who expressed the words. My leg falls asleep, I switch position. I am gazing. I could focus on something specific, but I let my eyes rest. I could focus but I let the world be blurry.

The climb seemed to be endless. How was it possible for any of his ancestors to climb this green monster? For years he heard stories. Of the beautiful end of this journey, of longing and loving. Of finally understanding what it is all about. Maybe it would enlighten him, maybe he would take some wisdom back to his friends, family, his partner.

But is all this struggle really worth it? Endlessly marching on, 90 degrees towards the sky? Holding onto this small stem, with all his powers. Is there no better way to spend his youth? He is in the prime shape of life, the best it will ever be. And where is he? Stuck with marching onwards. There is no one telling him to keep marching but the promises of what might happen if he will.

There is a plain coming toward him. He can see it more clearly now. Is this the end of his journey?

With the last power in his 6 legs, he continues to hang onto the stem. the plain gives up a bit under his weight. He is now hanging upside-down, watching the abyss beneath him. He could give up. He could just let himself drop down. For sure, his wings would work. They always did, always ready to be deployed.

He looks up further. It is time to finally find out, what he has been promised.

He climbs the edge of the plain, getting onto it. The sunlight hits his face. He is blinded, unconscious of what is happening. But it is warm, comforting. As soon as he is able to look further, he can see. Other bugs, sitting on leaves. Enjoying the sun, enjoying the the first warmth and the rest from their journey. He can feel that it has been worth it, the way up seems to be effortless now. Even going down; it’s just a fall.

The sunlight hits my eyes and I put on my glasses.

Roaming through the streets with the sun ahead of me and dark clouds in the back I cannot help but feel advantaged. Is it already the time of walking downhill with the wind lifting your every step? Am I already picked up and safely carried to bed when I am too tired to go there myself? Am I watching a fascinating documentary while someone prepares dinner? I feel reluctant to say so but I just might.

Now, you can interpret this weekly review as you wish. Let incoming spring be the reason, or just a gut feeling. But it is with great pleasure to inform you that I am on the receiving end.

Sunday has already passed on and as a keen reader, you might see some dynamics establishing here. There tends to be a spicyness in the written text when the environment is more adverse. It makes sense, spicyness, in the end, is just a mild form of suffering. But it is suffering that results in an increased intensity of the experience. So, as I am currently on the Lassi scale of spicyness and you might be not, why don´t we reach an agreement on this? Maybe I have found you in a spicy environment, maybe you are advantaged as well and the sun is also caressing your face. But let me emphasise that each individual site has its advantages. Right now, I am lazy. My momentum is slowed by increase in comfort. Senses are a bit dull.

So when my life is becoming more spicy, let´s just focus on the output it has. Meaning, I will write to you more often.

It is a Lassi week. Sorry for being late.