EVERYDAY STATIONS

Like a mute, alien star among Men, like a fired, outcast, pitiful little minute-man among the rest; a frateless, and companionless prodigal old-man - I must walk alone, forced to walk the pathlessness of the crooked roads of intent: my shell-maiden, though it protects and still protects me, I have long felt that nothing in this World can be quite right!

Those who once proclaimed themselves my friends, now stare at me like a broken mirror, with poisonous thorns flashing in their eyes. Is it all in vain? I see it's still the same old idiotic song: they don't want to understand! They stagger along the donkey-ladder of Life and careers never had, and like oxen and brainwashed steers they even sell each other out with a calm heart. Some would decorate the contours of my chubby face with a broken beer bottle.

The Director, the lawyer with whom I once kneaded mud in the sandpit to build a fancy sandcastle palace, drives around in his shiny luxury car and sees a curious, luscious swamp pond at the bus stop, he deliberately drives into it at high speed until I'm soaking wet, then slows down spectacularly, and I can still see his pale, pale eyes, not yet having forgotten the petty, childish sins of his fateful childhood. Many a time I'd rather let it be: I'm tired of it all, of the downward woes of Toleration! Who can truly know me, and honestly, with all my years?!

Somehow I clean myself up and go on, and when no one sees me anymore, I shelter under the rusted red leaf crowns of the shade trees of the Karolyi garden and shed my bitter tears. You or your World?