Oed' und leer das Meer

Indeed, indeed. And what should I go back to, and what should I go on for?
We live more for our small hopes and dreams. But when they're gone, we stagger and stumble, and fall. And then what.. then what?

So many stories but which one to tell?

Oh how life turns.
You give your heart, and it's torn apart.
And all you have left is sad little rhyming cliches. And pieces. Of everything you gave away.

Oh but.
We will keep calm
And we will carry on.
They survived the holocaust with it, and mine is but a heart.

The world stops, if only in pictures.

I think.
I think what we're waiting for is the world to stop for a few moments, so we can take a deep breath and collect ourselves. Except that it never, ever does. So we stop and try to collect ourselves anyway, and what happens then?
The world moves on and leaves us behind, as we're left doing all the breathing and the collecting.

Such is life.

Loneliness is often, and unwelcome. But you must be a good sport, and you must persevere. Because there is always another day.
At least that's what they've been telling me.

Of course I dream of running. Everyone in the ranks of the restless and the lonely does. We dream of conquering, and escaping, and of the subsequent elation that will take hold of us. We write out elaborate fantasies in our imaginations, then wipe the board clean and write some more, just so we can test out the limits we have set for ourselves. And of course, to find out if it's possible to break them. Up there is the sky, and we find ourselves owning a blue vastness with our eyes closed and our hearts open. We embrace the possibilities we make, and we will them to become true. Only to have the satisfaction of knowing, even for once, what it feels like. We live in so many hopes, dream so much- it all piles up, quite precariously in our souls. It's always at the point of almost toppling over, but even then we can't let go of the empires we've achieved, if only within ourselves.
It's not like we don't know this is a series of exercises in futility. We know more, and better, than those who never dream. That's the epicenter of our crisis: we know a little too much, and a little too well that our castles are made of sand. At the end, when we're up against the world, they will wash away and wash up in the consciousness of others who dreamed like we did. And even then, even when the these lives have collapsed, when we become bogged down in our own webs- even then we we will not have the heart to warn them. And we will never laugh, because looking back at our naivety will be endearing in the most heartbreaking of ways.

But of course, you will move mountains. It's what you were born to do, and this stalling of yours is just a momentary distraction.

You spent half of your life trying to fall behind
You're using your headphones to drown out your mind
It was so easy, and the words so sweet

You can't remember, you try to move your feet.

It's all incoherent and alien to you. The world is blank and you're lost in it, except that you're not little, and there's no one to pick you up and restore you into your little corner. You forget if there even is a corner in which you're supposed to belong, and it puzzles you because you've come to the place where you've convinced yourself that you made that corner up, a long time ago, to run away from Unpleasant Things. So you allow yourself to stand there, in the middle of all that vast endlessness, right in the center, and feel like the world's spotlight is shining down on you and you're looking up at it. You can't decide whether it makes you feel important or impossibly small, whether you want it all or none of it, and if it even makes a difference now that you're here and this is life.