Life is a parade of monotony,
mundane, so very mundane.
The plants we plant
do not sprout, and thus
they do not die.
And so,
we grow bored
staring at soft soil,
wondering if we fit there,
seven feet beneath the surface.
If that’s where we deserve to be.
If there is another place
to call home.
If this is our home.
If up there, in the sky,
a home exists.
And if there is no
such thing as a home,
then where shall we look?
But even in the most
mundane lives, things change.
Loves arrive,
they rattle the fabric of existence,
and then they go away.
They leave us sorrowful…
But then we forget,
and we love again,
and love the same person,
and then another person,
and then Fernando Pessoa,
but never ourselves.
We, ourselves,
grow bored again,
until the first sunflower
breaks through the soil,
that job offer comes,
and we think of
paying the bills,
of buying a new pair of pants,
of giving money to family…
Then we remember
we hate our families,
so we look for a new love
to spend that money on.
But work is expensive:
it costs us our backs
and our enthusiasm.
Soon, we no longer make love.
And we marry, desperate
to love.
But love what?
– Painting: Strøget (Main Street, Copenhagen), circa 1941. By Harald Engman.