Urge to Live

To Sir Ben Yoda.

Friedrich laid nauseous in the bedlam of the room he had grown to hate, the room he would leave soon, for another, in another country, which he would hate too. His muscle clung tight onto his painful bones, stiff with the excitement of a night’s thinking, of hours spent in dismantling long built metaphysical superstructures, of days fumbling through the darker and darker paths. The sun seemed farer with every endeavor to repeal the dazzles of artificial gleams. And yet.
He closed his eyes. He had to. At some point. And his thoughts kept flowing, leaked out his control. Erosion. Bits of values were swept with contempt into sub aquatic dumps of holy fireguards and other moral relics. The riverbed got bigger and harder with every blast, mud and loose particles chased away. The crystal clear water ran with unprecedented violence, paying no heed to obstacles, shaping falls and rapids, never to be overcome, hinting at the birth of its own measure, beyond good and evil, over dams, will to power.
Urge to live.