A confrontational mirror

Sunday, February the 18th of the year 2017. While the Bible-belt police and ambulance service are forced to use their sirens early on this morning because a homeless and confused man, who had spent the night under the pulpit, is heavy-handed, though in a responsibly christian way, slapped out of Church, the sawdust maker slowly wakes up in a tidy home. The efforts of yesterday are clearly visible and the confrontation with a realistic, reflective, mirror shows painfully that gravity and time leave their footprints. The clock is ticking as an analog time bomb in the serene quietness of a Sunday morning with, for the first moment in a long time, some spring fever in the air. The fresh fragrance of scented cleaning products tickles the nose and lets the first cup of coffee taste like a mixture of burned beans and throat scraping Lavender tea without sugar. The, since a few weeks daily, Tai-Chi exercises which rhythmically are established between the first and the second cup of coffee, on a day like today are seen as disruptive elements and therefore are performed in the form of concoctions. While passing the mirror, on my way to the, borrowed, tumble dryer to get the bathrobe that was washed last night, there’s that certain need to stop and think about events that seem to be immune to gravity and to find out that in the reflection the clock turns backwards. History and future are interchangeable, just depending from the way you look at it. The future is just a prolonged period of history with some adjustments by experiences, gravity and human error. Progress finally always ends up as a dead footnote in the past and despite the increase in wealth, years of life and unrealistic desires there seems to be no reason to track down and recover the hidden defects of mankind. While the silence is broken by a nervous dog who is barking in front of the closed kitchen door, the vapor of a third cup of coffee condenses on the lamp hanging above the table and cold drops fall down on the printed manuscript of the sawdustmaker’s next book, The Room of Tears, reality of the day comes to life. The prospect of a dinner with friends later in the day, at the kitchen table on which history is written and to which future dreams are discussed, displaces the melancholy. It is going to be a beautiful Sunday on the lonely Hill...