A grey blanket covers the city.
The weather report calls it mist.
Warns for high UV-levels.
But I know better.
I cough and with teary eyes
I blow my nose.
A cold with high fever.
But I know better.
Wiping the dust off the floor
with a damp cloth,
it feels clean again.
But I know better.
Back home, I separate my trash.
I close the tap when I'm brushing my teeth.
I bike and take the train whenever I can.
I am good. Or so I tell myself.
Perhaps my choice is based on an illusion.
Organic food, waste management, sounds pretty fancy.
Here people are surviving. Raving against time.
Maybe not all of them. Many.
Birds have no choice. They fly through the mist.
Perhaps they'll find those misty mountain tops.
Destroy the One Ring, called 'greed', that binds us all.
Perhaps it's just called survival. And we're all connected.
Lying in bed with a fever, I know I'm not the fittest.
If life really turns out to be no more than survival,
then why haven't we simply stopped fighting?
There must be something more,
If there is,
I don't know it.
Yet.
.