We run against all responsibility.
Against punctuality,
against the cold,
the gray clouds,
the people,
against the course of time.
Legs hurt,
the sun burns your face,
your hair moves with the wind,
your feet are pricked by seashells.
The waves punch us. We swallow salt, foam, and seaweed.
We abandon the chairs,
the desks, the classrooms.
The body rises and resuscitates,
and our reason dies.
The body becomes ours again and we feel alive.
A first brave person dives in and forgets the cold,
and the fear of the betraying waves.
Time stops touching them.
Work, pain, and death
are on the shore.
Those wait for us where the waves are calm,
where only the tips of our toes get wet,
where the sand without seashells is
and where
you no longer have to run.
Where the body stops feeling alive,
and where the mind hurts,
it burns.
But we ran to the middle of the ocean,
we dived in,
we swallowed salt, foam, and seaweed.
We abandoned the chairs,
the desks,
the classrooms.
Our body is now ours,
and we decide
that time will stop touching us.
