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The fight of the smile
When in November the colourful autumn foliage has long since lost its variety of colours, only discoloured brown and wet the grey of the mist the base mimics, then I am embraced by an inner cold which I could gladly do without. Every morning the bed robs my head of the will to send my feet out into life. I don't want to see the wet horror. Fortunately, my base has already developed a life of its own and does not always follow the authorities. Lead-heavy my bare fins pull furrows on the way to the bathroom. The neck seems infinitely long, as if my head never left the pillow.
So I shuffle into the shower, turn on the cold water tap almost apathetically and wake up my unwilling spirit rudely, with cold watering. He's scared to death and lets the water stop. Half awake, cooled down and wet I am now an equal opponent to the outside, think, no I hope for a moment. My arms pull up the roller blind and already at half height my eyes recognize the darkness, realize the naivety of the spirit, the unfulfilled hope for a, if not strong, at least defiant reaction of my psyche to this colorless tragedy. But both strength and defiance are not there for the time being. But just giving up like that doesn't work either, there's a breath too much life in me long ago.
So I meet the morning, repeating abstinence from colour with a good sip of fatalism. Oh, look, it's horrible, how beautiful. A smile is difficult, only wants to succeed in the brief moment when the spirit of manipulation is already conscious, but the facial muscles have not yet gained knowledge of the stimulus that has so devastatingly struck the eyes, and is therefore helplessly confronted with fatalism, even literally taken by surprise. Look at me, a smile winking at my reflection. Only briefly, then the fake signal subsides, the cheeks greet gravity, so I have to do the rest of my morning toilet without a cheerful expression on my face. It's easier with music, so I turn on the radio. Not without taking a quick look at the watch. The weather forecast would now be counterproductive.
After a successful external renovation, my body tension must be switched from the cold, blue-grey area to the operating mode. An intensive green is the declared goal. The desired coordination of arms and legs starts rough. As if synchronisation were a foreign word, my extremities perform a dance that is equivalent to a demand for the freedom of each individual body cell. "At the same time," my control organ interferes and "rhythmically." Thanks to a trace of coffee aroma the concentration increases and with it the influence on my control grows. The movements are now almost orderly, the facial muscles recognize the work of the colleagues with a smile. So motivated my condition shimmers towards a pale mint. A short relaxation phase is followed by the final attempt at a happy, albeit inappropriate "good morning, my pretty one".
Sufficiently trained, I succeed in transferring into the desired mode. Body and mind now draw circles together. Nonchalantly I disregard known and long accepted small inconsistencies. They know each other. It goes out resolutely, the wet grey penetrates me only conditionally. The cool, clean air flows deep into my chest and exhales condensed, tender evidence of my energy. I look forward to the tasks of the day. Not everybody does. Numerous conspecifics who seem to lack light and warmth testify to this with a cramped, forward bent gait. Armed with coat, cap, scarf, almost uniform, they scurry past me. With a smile I try to warm the hypothermic. But suddenly a ray comes back. As if the sun penetrates the mist, unites atomic nuclei directly in my inner being and thus revolutionizes my perception. The cold has burned down, the grey has shifted in colour. I feel Caron.