Maybe in the next incarnation

It rains and it's cold outside. I'd like to go down into the layers and layers of blankets. To jump down into a hot water fountain and let me involving, sinking, feeling the heat, feeling its embrace. I'd like to run barefoot through the desert, the dizzy Sun burning my skin, totally dirty of sweat and dust. The hair shaggy.

I'd like to throw out my brain or, at least, give it a break. That's impressing how neither during the sleep it stops, but if it stops, we'll die. But the problem itself is this obsession of wanting answers for everything, of wanting to analyze everything, of wanting to judge everything, of commenting about everything. Oh God, what a boring behavior!

Did we born free or slaves? It doesn't matter wherever we were born: either we adapt to both economic and social order of the standards of success, or we'll be predestined to starve or to be isolated. It's a hard reality to get rid of because the world always was this way.

We were born to die. Religion educates people for the day of their death, and life on Earth becomes just an extensive course to the Heaven's entrance exam. And life passes for those alienated in feeling guilty due their sins. But there's also the religion of success because, in order for us to be happy, we have to accumulate material goods, working hard to achieve richness, impressing the others and then, filling up all of our kinds of emptiness.

Life is short. Too short. We should love and live more. But in this life, we'll work hard because our retirement, in fact, will be in our death. We have time. Maybe in the next incarnation we may love those today we hate or despise, in this life they must suffer because our ego is hurt. Maybe in the next incarnation we may be free from this idiot necessity of salvation and success. Maybe in the next incarnation our hearts may be clean of the current resentments and then, we'll be finally free to love.