He liked walking the crooked streets. He grew up with a steady diet of theology. His spare time was spent studying his own discord. Kierkegaard often dreamt, both when awake and asleep, of leaving behind his gloom. He wanted to wash away the melancholy like so much dust from the streets, but it was so palpable and comfortable, he viewed it as his true mistress. He would not leave her as she would not leave him.
“I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations- one can either do this or that. My opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it – you will regret both.”
Amidst the patched canvas tents, each wagon was a world unto itself, of scents and colors and textures, indicative of those who dwelled within. In one such wooden world, the contortionist stretched out on the old rug on the floor. He in turn lifted each leg and twisted his body from the middle, swiveling side to side, and then straightening out again. He liked being twisted up best, feeling something, anything, pulling him in another direction.
“Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.”
Kierkegaard turned the corner to the park. He approached the arch but before
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| Funny story on Yareah Magazine |
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