Dread Mill

written by Synkope If I was to find, that the amplitude of my heart beat remained the same, forming a straight line over a certain period of time, I knew, that I must be dead. From that, yet for me luckily still unproven fact, I draw the conclusion, that the higher the frequency of that shallow beating machine in my chest is, the more I am alive. And so I keep running. Pushing myself, punishing myself each time I slow down. Standing still means failure. The faster, the better. No matter if I am moving forwards or backwards, the only rule I agreed on is, that I must not stand still at anytime.

Yet another night has passed. The farmer rises. For quite a while, he has not been growing crops anymore. Its no longer worth the effort. The fields are empty, the soil is bare. Places once covered by ears ranking like toy soldiers- straws weaving in the gentle wind- have become vast and void. The fountains have run dry. The old mill, once being the heart of the manor does not grind wheat into flour anymore. The area is vacant; just some skinny dogs every now and then and somewhere in the distance a grazing buffalo.

What is the sense of running? What am I running away from? Running and still not moving a centimeter. With my pulse revolting, my flesh screaming, my bones being crushed and crumbled with each grinding move. I tell myself, its ridiculous and I tell myself to stop. Myself keeps staring at the wall, the wall keeps staring back. Myself keeps breathing, nods and keeps running.

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And yet, the mill wheel is spinning steadily and restlessly around its own axis. At night and day, at summer and winter, sunshine and rain. It is spinning. Continually turning. The creaking and squeaking of the old wood speaking is trying to conquer the purring and humming of the ropes running through the winches. For it never must stop. Spinning perpetually, beating unbrokenly, like the farmers old heart. Each single rotation is a question with no answer. Why cant they ever be satisfied with what they have, whenever they see, that their friends posses more? Full rotation. Why do they harbor dreams, that once being accomplished will push them into a deep chasm? Full rotation. Why do they get more and more thirsty the more they drink? Full rotation. Further and further it keeps spinning, each of its rotations yet only grinding white stones to dust. It just wont stop. May not want to stop. My heart is rapping heavily against my chest. My breath is fast and irregular. Who or what is running behind me? At least I know its not my fear. Because fear is sitting beside me, knowing no matter how fast I run I will never escape. And from death, you cant even run away, because it will always just be there before you and wait in the place you head towards. Ready to take away your life, your oh so precious life. Still I keep running. How knows what for or what away from? Pushing myself, punishing myself each time I slow down. Because standing still means failure. The faster, the better.

The farmer habitually starts his day with his obligatory walk around the plantation, which keeps him busy for several hours, as his flesh is worn-out and the mansion tremendous. Conscientiously he checks all things being in their place, all incidents happening the way they
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should. And he keeps on chasing the loitering dogs over and over again with a wooden club. Feeding his twin sisters turtle. And once a week, he cuts the branches of the hedge embracing the mills forecourt. After finishing his duties, he will sit down in his rocking chair on the veranda, absentmindedly gazing into the wasteland, devoting himself to pear brandy. Why do they go into battles against enemies, who used to be their friends only the day before? Full rotation. Why does constantly facing the depth of the chasm make them blind to see the bridge providing the save way over it? Full rotation. Why do they poison fountains and rivers they drink from themselves? Full rotation. Further and further it keeps spinning. It just wont stop. May not want to stop. At about noon, he rises again for a second walkabout. Usually, also then everything will be just right in order. Only at rare occasion someone will drop by and if so, only for a short time. No one can bear this place for a long time. Why do they linger on the empty battlefields of wars they lost aeons ago? Full rotation. Why do they close their eyes each time they jump into a chasm? Full rotation. Why will they prefer dying of dehydration to drinking from a jar, whichs content they cant indentify? Full rotation. When I get off the machine, all my limbs are shaking. The ground beneath my feet not moving anymore feels kind of strange. Still I breathe. At least. My body is sick of running away, my mind is not. Fear takes my hand to guide me home. Its exactly like it always has been. Nothing changed, same feeling, same situation. Same life, oh so precious life.
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Dawn. Choking down the last slug of brandy, the farmer finally rises one last time. Fatigue makes him stagger. For a long time he has been sick of listening to the everlasting purring sound of the mill wheel, sick of being mesmerized by the almost hypnotic spoke movement. Dark haze descends, swallowing the last glimpses of daylight, making his green cloak appeal almost black. And another day has passed. Just like numberless days pass. Numberless hours, minutes, seconds, rotations, who dares counting them? If each single of those was a human life, what would be its worth? Life is precious. Numberless human beings. One dies with the each first, one is born with each second rotation. They enter and leave without being sad about it. Being sad is up to those watching them enter and leave, watching the full rotation. Who dares counting them? And yet another day has passed. And I just wasted 45 minutes of my oh so precious life on a fucking tread mill.

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