Little Pieces of Life

The little things in life are forgotten. We kill them, murder them ruthlessly, until they make no more sense. We dissect, analyse, think, and try to give so much meaning to everything, that it finally blows up. On our faces. Blackening us with soot and dust. Our lives finally become a stretched hot air balloon, that some poor kid is desperately trying to make bigger, until finally it bursts. We are the kid, we are the balloon. And we are going to burst. So much that, that which has meaning no longer does, and that which doesn’t, which shouldn’t, which cant, will suddenly will. Simple things are simple, but we don’t get it, do we? Everything in this world, everything that we feel doesn’t really need an explanation, a justification or a meaning. Sometimes there is none. But we cant live with it. Some people like me go over the edge, even, needing a flowchart explaining the road that has been taken to the present moment of happiness or sadness or whatever it maybe. And we get stuck at some infinite loop, unable to explain how we got to that moment. But we don’t really need to know, do we? All roads do not lead to happiness. Rome got lucky with that one. So as long as you’re there, in that moment, happy and content, why does it matter how, and why you got there? It’s an irritating obsession. The whole element of adventure is lost, with so much thought. Who cares? Sadly we all do, and we all give up on the little things in life, so we don’t have to wait for bigger tragedies to happen. Apparantely. Tragedy doesn’t announce itself, by the way. It just happens. If we have to wait in anticipation of something that may or may not happen, we may as well die this moment, and kill it all. And take all the little things that we like, but don’t do, with us to heaven or hell. If you believe in that kind of thing. Otherwise we just die. And the little things don’t matter anymore, and this time for real.