Wake up and expect it will go on for ever when the reality is very, very different. Wake up, go to work. Lots of little disappointments. In headaches and in worries vaguely life leaks away. Keep telling yourself, it will get better and it is worth the ever so regal patience.
What do you live for? In what does your hope consist? Unclear. How shit of you not to be able to put it into words, and how boring to do that anyway. It is happening, it is happening, and it is so tiring, so often trying. It should be clear. You should have it emblazoned over your desk, tattooed on your forehead. Is it something to do with love, with looking upon your beloved and saying calmly, I don't want any more than this?
Some abandon thinking. Others never thought. Still others strive for justice, solidarity, to pass on knowledge and wisdom. I live by the heart, by the selfish heart that wills to hear a broken plea answered. And that is a vague way to live. Empty accusatory days. There is plenty of time for it though, isn't there? Plenty of time to ask oneself the question: am I living in full awareness of the quiddity of being alive? And to answer: Hell no.
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