I never asked to be born. It was forced upon me by a moment of mindless lust, later sugarcoated by religion with the phrase “the gift of life.” The problem is, unlike an unwanted Christmas gift, I can’t simply toss it away. Both nature and society have made sure to hold me hostage as long as possible and to produce further victims of this vicious circle. Now that I’ve finally realised this, I know why Merry Christmas sounds like an insult.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and although the overuse of this saying has reduced it to just another cliché, sometimes it still gets to the heart of the matter. As in the case of this image, generated by AI, which I play with from time to time to create illustrations for my texts. It is an expression of pure beauty. And I don’t just mean a beautiful woman painted by an artist. Both the picture he paints and the one of which he is the subject are wonderful compositions on many levels. The colour palette is also delightful. If only I could have it on the wall in my room.
In moments like these, I also regret that I don’t have artistic talent. Being able to create things this beautiful is a true gift. This is probably the only thing that, for me, comes close to religion (I mean faith, not an institution). That and music. I must admit that even though I grew up on the ambrosia of words and I also write myself, words have never made me feel an ecstasy equal to this one.
Should I rather enjoy a pleasant slumber while being thoroughly aware of sleeping
or choose painless insomnia with its constant watching and waiting? There are also
heavenly bribes to virtue offered by religion, with its promise of happiness always
expressed in odd numbers. Perhaps if I ever envied someone’s moral high ground,
even if it was nothing but a long-forgotten echo of casual snobbery, I could simply
follow the lead instead of dwelling upon all this froth.
hidden pilcrow 