12 February 2021

Racing for life

 

| 2 minute read | 2 hours work |

This life is about racing with the wind. Who will run faster? Me or the wind. Whether the storm takes me with and devastates with me what comes in its way, destroys entire forests, breaks the trees, so they fall so helplessly to the ground. And never again, no one and nothing can put them back, whether it's just a breeze who plays with my hair. And he tells me to go. To run.

This life is about racing with the wind. Who will run faster? Me or the wind. Whether the storm takes me with and devastates with me what comes in its way, destroys entire forests, breaks the trees, so they fall so helplessly to the ground. And never again, no one and nothing can put them back, whether it's just a breeze who plays with my hair. And he tells me to go. To run.
 
Because...
 
This life is about racing with the wind. The mountain said.
 
This life is about racing with destiny. Who will change it, if at all? About the race for the most gypsy gypsy with a glass ball that only she can see into and cards that no one understands better, only her.
 
This life is about racing for survival. Who will be the best, who will last longer? Who will make it?
 
This life is about racing with the sun. Who will have the most perfectly burned skin? Others can say, think, not wish, long for the same, for foreign envy because this life is about racing with envy.
 
About the racing with water. About a race for a drop of clean water. About prayer for the rain. For the crop, for the grain, corn, grass, flowers, and bees.
 
This life is about racing with beauty. Who will have the prettiest clothes, the highest heels, the reddest sole, and the most trampled soul? The slimmest figure and a starving body. The most unsuccessful plastic surgery and smile without facial mimic, the most sensual lips, plastic plates, and porcelain instead of teeth. In Peru, the stranded foreign hair that someone had cut off, stolen from an unsuspecting walking girl down the street, on whom someone immediately became rich by a few cents, sold to a young European woman, making her so unreal and disgustingly disgusting. Foreign dead hair that could live and could be beautiful and could be an ornament and could be carried majestically and belong to the one to whom it would belong, if they were.
 
This life is about racing with love. Who will buy it, who will find it, who will get it, who will deceive, who will lie, who will never say that he was loved, that he loved?
 
This life is about racing for pain. Which can not be driven away by anything, only deceived, shifted, set her time as on a precisely timed bomb. Five, four, three, two...
 
About the racing for tears, for crying, blood, and wounds. About the race with a bullet from a weapon, somewhere where there is no peace, and no one knows if it will be at all, because stupid people, generations of foolish and evil, are still being born.
 
This life is about racing with a vaccine. Who gets it sooner, at any cost. Who will overtake someone who could still breathe today? Who does not go personally to apologize to the cemetery? Who will never understand the value of another's life. This world is competition.
 
This life is about racing for wealth. Who has everything and who has more. Whoever gave what he had to offer, bought, collected, paid, sold, sold out. Who has the fastest car and the most glittery jewelry? And the most beautiful car passenger. The perfect garden and house that is not home is this life. About the cleanest street with shiny shop windows, without homeless people, about the emptiest hearts.
 
This life is about racing with food. About haute cuisine. About empty plates. About no plates. About hands. About dirty hands. About empty hands. About hands gorgeous with a perfect manicure that never held anything in their hand except a silver fork is this life. About hands old, tired, wrinkled and calloused. God help them, the words that shout from a distance, and God listens to these words. 
 
About the loudest and biggest applause.
 
Let's tell the truth.
 
This world is about racing for life.
O preteky s vetrom je tento život. Kto pobeží rýchlejšie. Ja a či vietor. Či ma víchrica strhne sebou a zdevastuje čo jej príde do cesty, poničí celé lesy, zlomí stromy, ktoré tak bezmocne klesnú na zem. A už nikdy, nikto a nič ich nedokáže postaviť naspäť. Či sa mi len s vlasmi pohrá vánok. Či mi povie choď. Bež. 
 
Lebo...
 
O preteky s vetrom je tento život. Povedla hora. 
 
O preteky s osudom je tento život. Kto ho zmení a či vôbec. 
 
O preteky o najcigánskejšiu cigánku so sklenenou guľou, do ktorej vidí len ona a s kartami, ktorým nikto lepšie nerozumie, len ona sama. 
 
O preteky v prežití je tento život. Kto bude najlepší, kto vydrží dlhšie. Kto to dá? 
 
O preteky so slnkom je tento život. Kto bude mať najdokonalejšie spálenú pokožku. Aby si ostatní mohli povedať, pomyslieť, nepriať, túžiť po tom istom, po cudzej závisti. Lebo o preteky so závisťou je tento život. 
 
O preteky s vodou. O preteky o kvapku čistej vody. O modlitbu za dážď. Za úrodu, za zrno, kukuricu, trávu, kvety a včely. 
 
O preteky s krásou je tento život. Kto bude mať najlepšie oblečenie, najvyššie podpätky, najčervenejšiu podrážku a najošúpanejšiu dušu. Najštíhlejšiu postavu a najvyhladovanejšie telo. Najnepodarenejšiu plastiku a úsmev bez mimiky, najzmyselnejšie pery, taniere z umelej hmoty a porcelán namiesto zubov. Nadpojené cudzie mŕtve vlasy, ktoré niekto niekomu odstrihol, ukradol v Peru nič netušiacemu kráčajúcemu dievčaťu ulicou, na ktorých niekto okamžite zbohatol o pár centov, nadpojil ich na cudziu hlavu mladej európanke, urobil tak niekoho tak neskutočne a nechutne odporným. Cudzie mŕtve vlasy, ktoré by mohli žiť a mohli byť krásne a mohli byť ozdobou a mohli sa majestátne niesť a patriť tomu, komu patria, keby. 
 
O preteky s láskou je tento život. Kto si ju kúpi, kto nájde, kto dostane, kto oklame, kto podvedie, kto nikdy nepovie, že bol milovaný, že miloval. 
 
O preteky o bolesť je tento život. Ktorá sa nedá zahnať ničím, iba ak oklamať, posunúť nastaviť jej čas ako na presne časovanej bombe. Päť, štyri, tri, dva... 
 
O preteky o slzy, o plač, krv a rany. O preteky s nábojom zo zbrane, niekde tam, kde nie je mier a nikto nevie, či vôbec bude, lebo ešte stále sa rodia hlúpi ľudia, celé generácie hlúpych a zlých. 
 
O preteky o vakcínu je tento život. Kto ju získa skôr, za akúkoľvek cenu. Kto predbehne niekoho, kto mohol dnes ešte dýchať. Kto sa nepôjde osobne ospravedlniť na cintorín. Kto nikdy nepochopí hodnotu cudzieho života. Súťaž je tento svet. 
 
O preteky s bohatstvom je tento život. Kto má všetko a kto nič. Kto dal čo mal dať, kúpil, nazhromaždil, zaplatil, zapredal, rozpredal. Kto má najrýchlejšie auto a najtrblietavejší šperk. A najkrajšieho spolujazdca. O najdokonalejšiu záhradu a dom, ktorý nie je domovom je tento život. O najčistejšiu ulicu s nablískanými vytrínami, bez ľudí bez domova, o najprázdnejšie srdcia. 
 
O preteky s jedlom je tento život. O haute cuisine. O prázdne taniere. O žiadne taniere. O ruky. O špinavé ruky. O prázdne ruky. O ruky prenádherné s dokonalou manikúrou, ktoré nedržali v ruke nikdy nič okrem striebornej vidličky je tento život. O ruky staré, unavené, zvráskavené a mozoľnaté. O slová ktoré kričia z diaľky pán boh pomáhaj a pán boh uslyš. 
 
O najhlasnejší potlesk. O najväčšie ovácie.
 
Povedzme si pravdu. 
 
O preteky o život je tento svet.
SHARE:

No comments

Post a Comment