Do you turn to your parents, your brothers, your family?
Do you turn to your friends or lovers?
Do you turn to yourself?
Who of those should you trust the most? If any?
Your family, for they can not but love you and will support you in all your endeavours, however grudgingly? Or are they to be mistrusted, because they may attempt to live through you, realize their half forgotten dreams of splendour through their offspring; or even begrudge you your shot at those dreams, where they blew it? Are they not human?
Your friends, for they love you because they can; and they stick to you because they want to? Will they be willing to let you go when they realize they should? Who’s to prevent them from subconsciously attributing their own reasons to you? Are they not human?
Yourself? That treacherous wretch that has to turn to others, even imaginary meta-others, for salvation, for solutions? That weakling who is incapable or unwilling – which one is worse? – to make the choices posed upon him as a member of society, as a participant of the eternal rat race? Are you not human?
When things go wrong, when they go right, who will you blame or thank? Why blame or thank someone who did not consciously do wrong? Why those who are only human? Do they or you control the tempestuous whims of life? We did not, could not, do not, will not affect the events that occurred, occur and will keep occurring.
Why turn to the helpless?
Is it not much better to let the fates decide? To let them spin the yarn of time, measure it, and cut it at will? Is it not much better to float the tides, being thrown hither and dither like the flotsam we truly are?
We are but actors, playing out the roles set out for us. The most the atheist can hope for, is that he won’t forget his lines. The most the believer can hope for, is that the prompter does remember them.
The Dancer by Otto Dix
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