And then the world started spinning, and we were all doomed by the first breath of our kind. Troubles erasing problems, and problems born at the core of troubles. One can not give in, and one can not stop the rain falling. The world starts spinning, and we can not make it stop, its sweetly bitter taste of living poisoning the scene.
At the end, all we can do is trying to dance the blade, careful not to fall, not to get cut. We can not rise, the blade is too sharp. We can not lie down, the blade is too sharp. We can not surrender, the cut will be too depp. We can not climb up, we can not reach the rope, and even the slightest try of a jump will pull us down further than we began. So the blade floats in the air, beside every other, beside all of us, beside what we call our society.
We want to break free from this chain, but every attempt sharpens the blade, and the dance gets more difficult. And the blade will eventually hurt us all, eighter by our selfdoing or by others pushing away the hang grasping for help from others dancing their own blade.
Even with all of us in the same situation, we keep fighting the beast of our nightmares, fighting eacother, and keeping alive. Some of us push others down to make themselves seem higher, and some rises someone else in the hope of getting pulled themselves. We give and we take, and in the end we are all the same, just as we began.
The hen lays an egg and the egg becomes a hen. Who really care which of them came first. They both are, by the time of change. The time which of we all longer, but never quite will experience. The time of the falling blades where stairs no longer are stairs, but a floor for us all to stand. Yet, we do not seem to be pleased with this. All equal. The same. We want to stand out in the crowd, we want to be the only one able to dance the blade. Here, Now.
What are we really? And how can we learn the dance?
