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(I have a saying that when I leave the house I say I jump off the trapeze (meaning I ventilate my thoughts)
Geopolitical Sonnet: The Late Parachute.text:Eng-Swe.
The mind, they say, is a parachute, but it doesn't open out of routine. You carry it in your head like a mute statue, if you don't jump with it towards the light. You have it, but you keep it in your pocket, like an unused train ticket. You fear that the thought is too reckless, that flying is only for the "cracked". But what is life without hard jumps? Just walking, with a fear of heights. Open your mind, make it a star, because the parachute is not just a banal fairy tale. When you open it, it spreads like a flower, with petals of ideas and courage. And then you learn that thought is salvation, not just a shield, but a flight without return. The mind is a sail in the wind of ideas, but what good is it if it stretches into the void? When time shouts "now!" and you want to calculate the fall in protocol. You have it, but you open it when it is too low, when the thought cannot take any other form. And then, instead of a beautiful, tender flight, you collapse in your own norm. Because the mind is not a trophy to put on a shelf, but a wing that requires courage and a leap. Open it when the sky is still in the current, not when the earth has become different for you. Don't be a parachute in your pocket, but a living flight, not a thought in vain. Wrapped as in an abaya scarf, the sonnet in a geopolitical metaphor — where the parachute becomes the symbol of a collective mind, of a nation or alliance that reacts too late, with grave consequences. Here is the reinterpretation: The state mind, parachuting into the wind, thinks it is high, but falls in silence. When the crisis knocks at the gates with fire and song, it calculates in meetings of pain. Diplomats pull strings in vain, their thoughts trapped in maps and protocol. But what good is it, when the sky spins and the earth howls: "There is no more control!" The mind opens, but too late, when wars dance in full delirium. When refugees flow like a desert, and peace is just a dream on a thin string. A parachute in geopolitical flight, but without a jump — just a strategic failure. ***
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Jeflea Norma, Diana.
Läst 43 gånger Publicerad 2025-07-18 09:13
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