Do you know, that the world sometimes screams?
That it sometimes even convulses?
You don't know?
Don't tell me that!
You know all too well. You did know at least. Yes, you have only forgotten, maybe.
Yes, the world is able to scream like a small child.
Or like a monkey before the leopard breaks its neck.
Of course the world doesn't have any stomach, but only these seizures like a living organism.
Do you remember?
Probably you don't. You were very young by then.
Now you are old.
You are a dancer yourself now.
Only monkeys and children notice it.
Well, they don't understand, but they do notice it.
The crying and and convulsing. Pain.
The pain of a never ending birth, being frozen in time.
Torpor. Cessation. No way ahead.
Right at the moment, when the bonce can be seen already.
Then deadlock.
Only the pains don't stop.
They pulse along and along.
Endlessly.
Like a movie, when the projector clamps, when the wheels have stopped turning.
Only a picture.
The only thing you see is a picture then. One picture. One and the same.
It´s only the light of the projector's bulb what's twinkling.
Pain.
When the world is getting used to the agony, right at the most striking moment, there is a jerk. A small jerk.
The baby's head moves a little.
The pain gets a different quality. Not stronger. Just a different quality enriches the anguish. The world isn't used to it yet.
Then the world sreams.
Children and monkeys do hear that.
The child's head opens it's mouth. Wants to join in, to get a part of mother's cry. It tries. Unsuccessfully.
With a smacking sound something unbelievable slips out.
A little awareness.
Only a little consciousness falls out of the soggy warmth of a once safety world.
Then they make a fuss about it.
They start boozing, gorging, singing and dancing.
They are dancing and dancing.
Dancing they trample upon the young consciousness, stamp it to the ground.
The whole family. Like panic cows in a small cot.
Dancing, the crowd follows dancing something called zeitgeist, spirit of the age.
Or does it follow the local colour? Or the weather forecast?
Well, all the same. Trampling they bellow: “Come here! Learn the steps!”
When the music stops the dancing stops too.
But only for a while.
Then they pour such a brutal love and careless care upon the consciousness until it desperately gasps for breath.
Without any chance.
Did you ever look back? I mean really back, back your whole journey?
You can't! You are afraid. You are afraid of what you heard as the first thing of all, the sound, that sound, the scream.
You fool about, you are busy, you are doing something. Of course something important, a least something required, a little bit, something dreary.
Sure, something common, uncoordinated, something stiff. You are always in a hurry. Your attitude is statical.
Fixed.
You are that picture, this clamping movie.
And what's your reason?
You are looking for the projector.
You want it to get repaired. It shall work again, shall operate again, shall move again.
But that´s impossible.
You aren't existing. Not really. Not completely.
You are only a fiction, arisen out of a child's unavailing attempt to give voice to the scream of the world.
Do you remember?
O, I forgot, that's impossible.
Remembering would be movement.
You know it already. You know everything. Really everything.
But you are wearing a caution label. Inside of your head: “Knowing interdicted!”
Well then, is it already grieving?
Do you feel the pangs already?
Are you beginning to understand?
You'll never find the projector.
You are the projector.
You are the gravel in the gearbox, the spanner in the works.
But you know that for sure.
You know what happens to a fiction, to a picture, which doesn't move.
It burns in. The monitor catches the picture, the monitor gets the picture.
The fiction becomes reality.
Then you start dancing.
You dance and dance and dance.