Awake Every Second, Dreaming with Open Eyes

Awake every second, dreaming with open eyes — a picture, refracted through transparent tears… and in it everything seems so vast, so immense… and supposedly easy — but more often, honestly, unclear… And a path as long as a tangled ball of thread, I hope, will lead to some hidden little corner, where the sound of strings will calm this pulsing frame: chanson, vocal unison, folk, rap-and-rock — any opus at all. Not the lotus pose, a mosquito bite, not orange juice, not even Keanu's dark-skinned friend, Morpheus, nothing can wake this exhausted organism. Not even the almighty Shiva, organist with six magical hands, in thirty fingers, not the old comedians, not their stunned sidekick either. Everyone around is asleep… or fixing a primus stove… only on Sundays does Jesus even call them to himself. Well — "call" is a strong word, more like a casual invitation, delivered through all-knowing church heralds, ready and able to calm absolutely everyone… except this particular opium doesn't even land as a joke. Not even a flicker of arrival. Go in, and don't forget to drop some coins at the door. And may the light of the Lord live in you forever. For non-payment, I hear, they can apparently switch it off. And that's it… Then it's dark walking forward, seeing nothing at all, not yourself, not anyone, and mainly, quietly hating the One above, shutting yourself in, letting no one into your own chambers, to grow into a new persona, untouchable, a lone wanderer, so that even the gods wouldn't think to get themselves tangled up with you. To grow starved, to crave the voice of reason, to hear the call through a fairly light sleep. To open your eyes, smile quietly. Wipe away the tear, and finally wake up.