What he had left quietly in 1913 he now took in triumph. Only a few hours earlier he had moved into the city. His fingers tightened on the piece of metal, as if they swore never to let go. His scream ebbed away, ran out in a rattle, his upper body fell forward and clattered on the small table. He had become one with destiny, he was destiny himself. Now, on the night of 14th to 15th March 1938, he finally held the spear in his hands. Four times seven years – 28 in total – he had been waiting for this moment. He had become one with the magical powers radiated by the spear, whose flow evolved, filled, and elated him more than he had ever experienced before. A strand of his hair hung in his sweaty forehead. His uniform cap slid down and fell to the ground. His head jerked upward, his dark eyes fixed on the piece of history he held in his outstretched, trembling hands. His arms shot forward, grabbing the spear, tearing it into the air. His mouth opened and a scream broke out that had nothing human about it. But the trance that overwhelmed him to seize his spirit made his senses unaware. The shakiness changed to a chill, his gaze remained fixed on the tip of the spear.
#Sakroots carry on radiant one world skin
On his face were drops of sweat that, when they slid down, left their salty marks on the skin and wet the hair of his thin mustache. Eventually his hands, his head, his legs were seized by it. Suddenly his chest began to shake, at first slightly, then more and more. Now he was lost in thought, giving the impression of a meditator speaking to his god, his head outstretched, his piercing gaze fixed on the spear that lay there on red velvet before him. By 1913, he had been here dozens of times, but never He had enjoyed the privilege of being alone, alone with the spear of fate, with history alone: today his companions had fulfilled his wish, and more than half an hour had elapsed since they had closed the door behind them. But until May 24, 1913, when he turned his back on the city, he ought to have acquired what later one of his biographers would call the “granite foundation,” albeit without realizing how true this was, now that the events of that time passed his mind’s eye, he was back where he first stood in 1910. Back then, when he had stood in the long line in front of the homeless shelter to get a bowl of soup, in the middle of the washed-up Strandgut of the city, he was still a long way off. He would articulate his accusations of blame to the world in order to explain his own destiny with its faulty order. And so, as he, the rejected, would embrace the rejecting, he would try to seemingly lift the humiliation he had suffered. Years later, the effects of this were to show itself: he would defend an order, which he rejected at the same time. But the more he had flushed the slander, the more his urge to be a part of that society had become. Morningstar – All Rights Reserved) From the civil society, he felt expelled and attracted at the same time. The Black Sun of Tashi Lhunpo Edited by Robert D.
0 kommentar(er)
