organic kind of truth

and when I go out straight into the fresh hair of grass, the evening is darkening and the clear air is hazing over, when fifteen storks are flying over my head and the day is fading away to the meter of distant trains, I am wondering why this all cannot be the essence of functioning, striving, beginning and aiming.

knowing the hierarchy of phenomena and events – feeling the tension of meaning in the countryside when the summer is slowly swelling – reading texts written in a language as dry as good old wine – listening to music so humbly and thoughtfully replacing the respected silence – knowing and recognizing

and yet

getting on mental and literal subway every day, letting it exhaust you like an animal – depersonalized, numb and helpless.

knowing it all so well, feeling it like some organic kind of truth – still not being able to find its way to the daily reality, to every breath, to every gesture.

I miss it

I remain

in debt.