The odds are shaken like the leaves in forceful winds. The odds of having been born where I was born. It had me thinking, did I triumph? Or is lucky more than a name? Winning and luck interest me as little as the leaves taken by the wind, drawn upwards into the open skies to confuse the clouds. Down here, well, things are different. Borders mark the beginning and the end of some form of being. Countries for example. They don’t interest me much either. Countries – is the concept supposed to help us survive a little longer? Protect that which is „ours“? That which we presume to be us? A strange thing, really. There isn’t much to durably interest me. Except maybe the absence of noise. Would that be the equivalent of silence? And what if there is neither noise nor silence? Then we’re probably dead.<\/p>\n
It’s ok, says duck, and death embraces duck lovingly. I still watch the leaves, picked up by wind, fiddling with the clouds. I have never seen a cloud in the shape of a leaf, and can’t help but wonder, after all, what could be more important than leaves and clouds in delightful dance? Perhaps there is an interest I can dwell in softly. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The odds are shaken like the leaves in forceful winds. The odds of having been born where I was born. It had me thinking, did I triumph? Or is lucky more than a name? Winning and luck interest me as little as the leaves taken by the wind, drawn upwards into the open skies to confuse the clouds. Down here, well, things are different. Borders mark the beginning and the end of some form of being. Countries for example. They don’t interest me much either. Countries – is the concept supposed to help us survive a little longer? Protect that which is „ours“? That which we presume to be us? … Leaves and clouds<\/span> weiterlesen