The worst thing is not that the world is unfree, but that people have unlearned their liberty.
In the world of highways, a beautiful landscape means: an island of beauty connected by a long line with other islands of beauty. How to live in a world with which you disagree? How to live with people when you neither share their suffering nor their joys? When you know that you don’t belong among them? Our century refuses to acknowledge anyone’s right to disagree with the world. All that remains of such a place is the memory, the ideal of a cloister, the dream of a cloister.
The majority of people lead their existence within a small idyllic circle bounded by their family, their home, and their work... They live in a secure realm somewhere between good and evil. They are sincerely horrified by the sight of a killer. And yet all you have to do is remove them from this peaceful circle and they, too, turn into murderers, without quite knowing how it happened.
Where do I draw the lines?
Of freedom and its confines
Is it blurred?
Bedimmed as it seems to me
Or is it zagged?
As Life is supposed to be?
Many came and chalk talked about you
You, I studied and watched endlessly
Why you are still a mystery to me?
Instilling a streak of fear
You do scent like security
Why you are so full of ennui?
Like a lone filament in a bubble
Glows of bond and immunity
Are you a noble thing?
Stringed to me as my sanctuary
Or it’s just me with my fickle fancy?
Borderlines, shed this obscurity
Undrape the Babe of Reality