The closest he ever gets to danger, is driving without a seatbelt.
All his life, he has had everything. Not everything he wanted, of course, just everything he needed, because we all know that a spoiled child is ultimately an unhappy child.
He is an unbridled succes. Or at least he will be, any minute now. He knows this, because he has been told so since he was born. By his parents, his friends, his schoolteachers. There is nothing he cannot do – noone he cannot be, if he puts his mind to it. He is the shining beacon. The pinnacle of man.
And yet, something is not quite as it should be. Somewhere deep inside, the plaistocene hunter is screaming at him in a long forgotten language. He senses that all his talents, all his succes, is dependent on an ever so fragile balance and if the soap bubble of civilisation shatters, he is rendered instantly and ruthlessly, useless.
He cannot deal with adversity, because society has always paved the way for him in advance. He cannot stomach failure, because nobody ever told him that failure was an option. He cannot protect the people he loves. He can barely change a lightbulb.
Maybe that is why he is increasingly disturbed by the little things. Because they bring the chaos right onto his doorstep. Because they force him towards the edge. That one final edge, the well-meaning fences of society can never truly shield him against.
1 comment:
Every minute alone
His plate has always been full...
The closest he ever gets to danger, is driving without a seatbelt.
All his life, he has had everything. Not everything he wanted, of course, just everything he needed, because we all know that a spoiled child is ultimately an unhappy child.
He is an unbridled succes. Or at least he will be, any minute now. He knows this, because he has been told so since he was born. By his parents, his friends, his schoolteachers. There is nothing he cannot do – noone he cannot be, if he puts his mind to it. He is the shining beacon. The pinnacle of man.
And yet, something is not quite as it should be. Somewhere deep inside, the plaistocene hunter is screaming at him in a long forgotten language. He senses that all his talents, all his succes, is dependent on an ever so fragile balance and if the soap bubble of civilisation shatters, he is rendered instantly and ruthlessly, useless.
He cannot deal with adversity, because society has always paved the way for him in advance. He cannot stomach failure, because nobody ever told him that failure was an option. He cannot protect the people he loves. He can barely change a lightbulb.
Maybe that is why he is increasingly disturbed by the little things. Because they bring the chaos right onto his doorstep. Because they force him towards the edge. That one final edge, the well-meaning fences of society can never truly shield him against.
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