Sweden (part 2)

Imagine that father forced his child, the small little Adolf, to work hard at school and to have good grades. Imagine that father told his child that is was ever more important to love ones country and to hate everyone who was not loving their country. And so on and so on. That dad was not necessarily such a bad guy. It could have been any populist-daddy, any asocial patriot or any conservative and any leftist. It could have been literally everyone.
But yeah, back to the Sand Crawler. It had not been build by Hitler obviously. But by someone who wanted to be important and who wanted to be loved by his loved ones. And probably that person had also wanted to be loved by a lot of more people. Or at least he wanted to be respected by whole hordes of people. Yes, many of them should even fear him. Because all of that respect and prestige would increase the esteem of his loved ones for him.
Such vanity. Yet so understandable. Now.... how could one help all those people to understand? Without forcing them? It seemed impossible. At least he could not think about anything that could solve this problem.
Also, he could still remember that he had been much like those respect-craving people he was thinking about now. He looked outside through the enormous high-class office-style windows and only saw the vague contours of the city lying bellow. He was on the 8th level of the building. Sitting on a nice chair. Some things were obviously fine about the building. Only, they had nothing really to do with the building and only with the view. A cup of tea would be nice now. He could sip from the tea, look outside and reflect on everything. He could let his brain go and process and think anything it needed to think through. And after all that reflection he could slowly walk down towards the bar, much like in one of those wonderful books of Murakami. He would have his headphones on and listen to some Jazz, from Curtis Fuller for example. And then he would order some whiskey at the bar and find a free place next to a window somewhere. Next to an office-style glass window. And then he would look outside and over the city which was slowly getting dark.
He liked daydreaming. Dreams were strange things. Especially when you were asleep. Some people thought that a real dream could not be distinguished from reality. He had also heard or read somewhere that there  were deceases, maybe like schizophrenia, where one was not able to distinguish between daydreams and realty. That was what happened when one turned dysfunctional, one could say.  When the fragile weaving of organs, nerves, blood, cells and complicated networks started to turn in on the body itself.
He was sure that he knew the difference between dream and reality. He was so sure in fact, that he took it for granted.
He looked down at his notebook that was lying on his knees. He always put the notebook as far as possible away on his knees, so he would not eventually turn infertile. He had heard that laptops could turn you infertile. That was why the name of the computer had turned from laptop to notebook. Everybody should be confused about that
He had been trying to write a story. He was not sure whether he liked it. He also did not know how to continue it. He had been trying to finish this story already for so long... It was about adventurers. Adventurers in a world of fantasy. Nothing like Narnia. Nothing like Lord of the Rings. But somehow about a similar world and also about similar topics. Hidden Christian morality and ethics.
His dream had always been to just sell a grand book and then have enough money to... to actually do what? That last thought always depressed him. He felt as if he had joined to strive. The all-human  strive to gain esteem so that he could justly receive or expect to receive love from his loved ones. How much nicer would live be, when it would be easier. Easier how? Just easier. Just... more calm. With people in it that were not striving. With an economy that was not going frenzy about growth. With a nature that was pretty and people that were modest and kind. How nice would it be to exist in a dream like that for ever?

He sipped from the whiskey he was drinking. It had a nice amber color, it was beautifully transparent, he loved to look through the liquid to world behind it. Like sunglasses with special effects.
There were ice cubes in there as well. He took a sip. The music sounded good. Five Spot After Dark. Reminded him of that great novel or book or whatever of Murakami. He felt a little similar like the protagonist of that book. Sitting in a bar and all of that. Would be nice if there would be some cats nosing about. But the place was pretty silent now. Some talking people. About very boring stuff probably. When was the last time he had heard people talk about something that was actually interesting? He felt a bit arrogant. Who was he anyway. Like he was talking with his friends about only essential things. Important things... no. Things that mattered. That were personal. But those talks there behind him, for example the dialogue between those two older ladies, they were personal too. Most probably. He could not hear them but he did imagine that the talk was pretty serious. Something like this:
"Say, Margaret, how is it with those legs of yours? Nancy told me you refused to use the crutches the doctor urged you to use. And you even fell down. That is what she told me as well. Now I know that I should not nose into other peoples business. But, you are my friend and so you are my business. I just wanted you to know that I think you ought to take care of yourself. We have to support each other, right?"
And then there would be a short silence, because Margaret would be in the process of taking a sip of the tea the waitress had just put before them on the table. And then, when she would have returned the cup to its initial position she would slowly turn to Ann and sigh, after which she would say:
"Now, darling. I understand. You are a good friend. But you know I am a stubborn one. And I will live my life and end my life just like I want."
And then Ann would object in someway. And the whole thing would continue until Margaret would give up or simply change the topic. They would talk about some movie they had seen recently for example.
Anyway. There he was sitting around. He was happy with the whiskey and tried to enjoy it as much as he could. Which was not an easy thing. He had been unemployed for so long no. Still there was enough money. And normally he would suffer from relentless selfjudgement. He should work. Or at least try his utter best to actually find a job. To earn money. To help society advance.
He would not mind to the latter. But, after all the things he had been thinking through and all the interesting books he had been reading, the came to the conclusion that especially the last thing, helping society advance, was a tricky thing. Should society advance? And, if so, how should it advance and in which direction? Surely, the current economic system was creating its own downfall. One did not need to have an adult human brain to understand that. The schoolkids protesting  on the streets appeared to have grasped it. Our planet is final. Its resources are not infinite. And so we cannot live with an economy that is based on growth. Growth of incomes, growth of production and growth of population. To help society advance would mean to change the economy into an economy that did not grow linearly but that would remain more or less constant. Or that would increase and decrease in waves, much a like a trigonometric function, a sine. But how could you find an organization or a firm that would support something like that?
He could try to use his brain for something useful he thought. At least he had some talent in using his brain. And so he had thought about going into academia. But the mere thought about sitting around among all kind of people who were trying to become important by writing all kinds of papers that should have an academic appearance made him wan to commit suicide.
So where was his place? He wondered. Sometimes he thought that he could eventually start working in some cafe or restaurant. At least that seemed to be a nice thing. Surely it was not exactly advancing society but least it was a job. One where one did not need to think to much and where one could move around, listen to the talks of people (however boring) and then could get to know people as well
But then he realized that he was afraid. To go and work in a restaurant sounded as if he would start to try and do something he was not very good at. It was like starting anew. And he was getting older and older. Although he was barely thirty.
Yes he was afraid. About the people who would run the place. And about the bosses. Who would all be mean and full of the need for importance. And everybody would be angry at each other. Especially when someone forgot to put some fork at some table. What the fork is not on the table? It even was a table where people reserved? Shame on you! Disaster! He surely could not work in an environment like that.
Although, obviously there were also nice cafes. He could also work in a bar for example. There the standards for neatness were a lot less high.
Very true. That was an option. He sometimes really hoped that he would actually go and just do something like that. But... he still hoped to somehow get something better. If he was a Buddhist like the Dalai Lama, so one of the really good ones, then he would probably pray now. Or well, train his compassion or something... He would wish that everybody in the whole world would find a way to actually find a fulfilling way of live. Something like that.
Curtis fuller had ended his song. The glass of whiskey was almost empty. With one gulp he drank what was left. It was time to go home.

Fortunately his home was nearby. Still he was wet though. But not through and through. He heard how the rain was tapping against the windows outside. It was dark.  
He switched on the lights, put his jacked on the hatstand and walked into the kitchen. He noticed that his shoes were wet and left some trail of brownish rainwater behind. He grabbed the bar-stool standing next to the fridge and started to clumsily take his shoes off.
When he finally managed he threw them into the corridor under his jacked. Then he stepped with his dry socks in the water. He acted as if he had not noticed it, although it was not pleasant and certainly very annoying. He did not feel like cooking and he was not yet that hungry.
So he went back to the corridor and from there he went inside the living room. It was silent and dark. He switched the light on and walked over to the dining table. He put his bag on a chair and took his notebook, the cables, the mouse and some other strange looking cables out. To charge his phone.
After that he switched on the computer and stared at the screen. It was starting up. Which took some time. And so he got up again and walked over to the couch that was standing in front of the TV.
After a while he decided to just let himself fall down on it. And there he was. Lying on the couch. What now?
Knowing himself he could be sure that he would soon get up and do something. For example he could get up and take one of his books. He did not have many of them. Neither had he finished any of them. Which is not true. He had finished his favorite books and he was actually reading  them over again. For the third time maybe?
He wondered if he should get depressed at that thought. But somehow he decided not to. That was something he had developed only lately. And he hoped that he would hold on to it. Life was short he thought, and so there was no need to make life any harder for oneself. Especially when one has no job and other "important" kind of function in life. Life is short. And it is also kind of beautiful, he thought.
He would never have thought that he would ever think something like that. He was not even in a very good mood. It must be some idea that had been processed up by his complicated and unfathomable brain activities. In other words: It must have been a whim. Pupped up form the unconscious. But this seamed to be a good whim. One that could make live more pleasant and so he decided that he should keep it.
He had watched some video lately. Probably on the internet. It was about a man who had been to jail for a very long time. What was his name again? Anthony. Anthony Ray Hinton. A remarkable person. One of the real heroes.
There were not many hero's left. But Anthony was one. At least to him. Had been to hell and had decided to return to the living. That kind of story one did not hear often. He had also remained something like an optimist. He had made his life useful, in prison. He had been sitting and dreaming around for about thirty years. He had gotten to know about thirty to forty people very well, probably almost like friend, that had all been put to death. He had smelled their burned flesh after the electric current had toasted his friends brains. Hell. A real hero.
Antony also had been, in a way, unemployed and had  not been serving any "important" function. Although he had definitely helped to advance society. Definitely. His life had turned up to be an example. A symbolic power for the good. For the end of the death penalty. For the end of racism. For justice. Because he had remained stubborn, right into the face of death, and never lied about him being actually innocent. People around him had tried to make him lie, to make him confess for murder, a deed he had not committed. Only so he could safe his live and instead sit in jail for the rest of his life. But he had followed himself, his own will, he had fulfilled his lives goal. And then he had written a book about all of his experiences. A book of a hero. That man could die in peace.
But not everybody could be a hero, right? What about all those other people that were condemned to death innocently but did not manage to safe themselves and to stay true to themselves? They were down there. Down way down. Far far away from the life he was leading.
His life was in a way normal. In a way it could be valued. In way it could be plain boring.
What was the next step? Sometimes he had thought about going to join the army. If he would have told any of his friends about this fantasy of his, they would have laughed about him. Him in the army? He could not even kill an ant. And that was true.
But in the army he would have a goal. Somehow. He would be worthy of esteem. Which does not mean that he would actually receive respect. But, you know how they say, someone had to do the job.
But did they really have to?
He was not sure if he had to do any job. At the moment at least. He could try to get a job though. And sometimes he was trying to get one. Because he needed money and all of that. Because he needed to survive. Obviously.
But apart from that?
He felt that he wanted to have a job where he knew for sure that he had to do that job. Or that task. But how many of those actually existed? One could only find out by trying. Probably.
Then a dark thought came up. A dark whim. Negativity. Suddenly it broke his line of thought. Because now he thought this: Why do anything at all when the world around you was being destroyed? Wasn't he doing exactly what was right? Wasn't not doing anything the only solution? No. That was wrong.
Why could life not simply be easier? He wondered again. Why weren't people modest and friendly all the time? It was naive to wish for such a thing. But he could not stop wishing for it. His thoughts started to turn around on themselves and to loose their logic. Slowly he closed his eyes.

--- the story continues, see "Sweden (par3)" ---