Right, left, up, and then down, each detour is an invisible blow. I change my direction, I turn back around, a fragment of shadow in the undertow. While I am moving, I don't know the way, no rudder to chart out the course on the sea. It’s an endless pushing, a blind interplay, just matter colliding and wandering free. Seen from up close, it is nothing but chaos, a broken path drawn in the open air. But looking back from a distance of years, we call it a trajectory beyond compare. I thought I was steering with absolute drive, choosing each corner and where I'd arrive... But I was a particle blown in the wind, pushed by collisions again and again. A random encounter, a careless mistake, a road that I chose and then had to forsake. An ancient fear pushing me to one side, a sudden desire overturning the tide. Each single hit felt completely alone, a meaningless detail in a flight of my own. But time stepping back shifts the whole point of view, and turns every push to a story made new. Seen from up close, it is nothing but chaos, a broken path drawn in the open air. But looking back from a distance of years, we call it a trajectory beyond compare. I thought I was steering with absolute drive, choosing each corner and where I'd arrive... But I was a particle blown in the wind, pushed by collisions again and again. But does the trajectory truly exist, or do we invent it to clear up the mist? Maybe we never steered straight to our fate, we were just pushed down the road, to the gate. We're particle and observer, both at one time... What an ironic wonder, vast and sublime. Seen from up close, it is nothing but chaos, a broken path drawn in the open air. But looking back from a distance of years, we call it a trajectory beyond compare. I wasn't heading anywhere. I was just being pushed. Right, left... up, down. And we called it life.
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