I don’t want a trimmed lawn or the shadow of Janteloven. The cultural myths dissolved on a digital, crowded road. People duck their heads, fading in a stream of more and more. But I went against the habits, ready to provoke a war. They only know the words, but they forget what they mean. Trapped inside the tight bonds of a cold, digital screen. The world's rarest flowers grow wild among the thorns. Not in the neat gardens where everything is crushed. I shake the rigid patterns right off my naked skin. Throwing away the high heels, let the barefoot dance begin. Art became my anger, my freedom, my raw resurrection. Now I steer my own chaos, without guilt or correction. Spinning in the circle, no beginning, no end, Where past, present, future bleed and blend! We break the straight line, we drop the knife, This is the end of survival, the beginning of life! Everything falls back to the original ground, In the endless loop of the word and the sound! There is no price tag on peace, it never goes on sale. In the broken parts I find beauty where the neat ones fail. Vulnerability turns to strength, the shattered turns to art. Spinning the dance of black crows with an untamed heart. Listen, there is a voice that doesn’t use any words. We live inside the echo, the only thing that is heard. Spinning in the circle, no beginning, no end, Where past, present, future bleed and blend! We break the straight line, we drop the knife, This is the end of survival, the beginning of life! Everything falls back to the original ground, In the endless loop of the word and the sound! Everything falls back... To the original. One with everything... One with nothing. Just breathe... In the space between the word and the sound.
