Utopia was the daughter of love and freedom. She was a beautiful child, gentle and strong at the same time. For centuries she had been loved and needed by the people.
She had been given many roles: justice and equality, the delight of the honey river and the money-free island of the golden future, the carelessness and painlessness of the brave, courageous, poor, supporting people.
She was rooted in the clouded sky, which always gives birth to hope. From there she threw pictures, picked from her body. If they touched a person, he began to dream and heard the sound of becoming.
But the desire to force utopia into reality shattered her into a thousand pieces. The Earth was too firm for her, the word of the individual too narrow. Burning the greed for comfort and cooling the fear of the future. So she withered in our heavens. Has scattered her splinters far and wide, with ultimate power placed the fragments of themselves in our flesh. Sometimes the fragments of her smile glitter from human eyes.
Or she sings barely audible in a cave. You hardly hear anything. You almost don’t believe it. Loud shouting almost wins the fainting. But the placeless voice hums a world and cleanses our eyes off the veil of reality. «No longer look for me in the external, in any distant place, not only after a thousand lives, not beyond and not behind. Transforming the here only means digging for yourself», whispers the unbecome that invisibly drives us.
Image: World Goetheanum Association Forum, September 2021. Photo: Paul Stender