dergeboreneverlierer flies down the slope
with nary a warm up, missed barely a step as he lands hard on the red earth
surface, footstep rapid after footstep, one after another.
he takes the first round flying. the
emotion of the round is anger. he feels the entire world
has done him wrong, and that the world does not deserve his gracing the planet
with his presence. he curses mentally, and the
thudding pain in his mouth that comes with every harsh footstep does not ease
things. he bites down and swarms it with more curses
in the hope that curses soothe ulcers. before he realises it he has gone three-quarters of a lap, at a
flying pace that terrifies even himself. how long
could he last like this? he passes the white line – oh it’s just one out of
many white lines, many insignificant white lines that stay content being
stepped upon incessantly – and gosh he tells himself it’s only oneminutefortythreeseconds, just a shade off the best he’s
ever done.
the emotion of the second round is grief. dergeboreneverlierer tries as he can to
keep up with anger, but he realises anger leaves him
behind, so he allows grief to sweep over him and hold him in her arms instead. grief with a capital g as all those masters of allegory
loved to write it. the pain that travels from that buccal carbuncle and streaks down his body all the way to
his feet intensifies with every thudding step, and he feels like the world has
given up on him. but that’s his birthright as dergeboreneverlierer anyway, so he convinces himself that
he shouldn’t stay grieving. and that’s when grief –
the lady with the capital g – decides it’s time to leave him too, since he’s
given up on grief. and he congratulates himself on a
job well done – even grief abandons him.
the emotion of the third round – if it can be considered an
emotion – is clarity. the pain that radiates from
within him suddenly takes on an extra element of clarity. its
familiarity is what strikes him. oooh
epiphanies. he hasn’t had an epiphany for a long time,
and hey epiphanies aren’t the birthrights of diegeboreneverlierer,
nor the specialties. yes, this pain hasn’t been felt for a long time, not for a
couple of years, and it’s not coincidental because he resolved then to not let
himself feel that way or be subject to that kind of pain ever again. he relishes the pain from the ulcer, stamps his foot harder
with every step to intensify that pain, and grimaces in glee with that sensation.
and then another
epiphany hits him – enervation. he’s been running on empty for far too long,
carried and tossed from the arms of one emotion (yes emotion has a capital e
too) to another. when they all decide to give up on
him, he too decides to stop. it’s more of no choice,
since he hasn’t the energy anymore. dergeboreneverlierer
notes to himself that it’s fourminutesfortyseconds. amazing. little wonder he can’t
last it.
back to the normal pace of human life, he trudges around the
basketball courts near the track. he walks in circles,
then decides that while that is keeping in the spirit of diegeboreneverlierer,
that’s not going to bring him anyway practically. he
heads towards the lights of the building, asking himself if he hasn’t suddenly
become kafka’s ungeheure ungeziefer in that instinct. he
hears violent shouts, shudders and then realises that
those are mere humans practising martial arts yelling
in unison.
he turns and walks away.
humanity doesn’t need him around; he doesn’t need
humanity around either.
he steps around that imagined light he sees radiating from
his earlier circles, and he sees no more need to be circumlocutory either,
although stepping around circles seemed to be an interesting prospect to him. he spies with his little eye the track. ahah! the track is still
around for him after all, and he thought he was spent, but he isn’t. he takes to the track at top speed, catches up with this
fatso in a matter of seconds leaving him for dead. sadly
just as quickly as he formulated that idea that he was still energetic, that
virtual energy leaves him with similar speed. his mind keeps going though, and
with amazing clarity he imagines himself looking up as a germ from the ground,
this lumbering thing’s stumpy excuses for legs cross paths, bringing the flight
to a disgraceful halt. the germ jumps in terror, flees
the scene.
dergeboreneverlierer waves goodbye to the
germ (as he did to the other early-leavers) and sees hitherto-mentioned fatso
plod by. fatso gives him a cursory quizzical look
before lumbering on. dergeboreneverlierer
feels like shouting to him, thanks for that look, you haven’t seen a horizontal
human being before? lose some weight run faster. but he doesn’t muster up that strength, he doesn’t muster up
that anger, he doesn’t muster up that vitriol.
with that gaze he receives, he realises
that these prior actions are those of madmen. he certainly doesn’t want to be classified with them. not he, even if he must be by virtue of being dergeboreneverlierer. so he does
the thing he has been taught to do through experience. the
immense experience gleaned and honed from years of being dergeboreneverlierer.
he picks himself up, flicks the dust and grime sticking to
his clothes, turns and walks away.
dejectium out
0000hrs gmt +8