The sentence sounded like a transition to the music; but it remained speech.
“If our evolution is a day,” said Dr. AuDHS, “then today we are living in the last minute. In this minute, an incredible amount is possible – and an incredible amount is dangerous.”
Hans felt how the word “dangerous” resonated within him, as if Clawdia had said it.
“We can make our life easier than ever before,” Dr. AuDHS continued, “and we can make it emptier than ever before.”
He paused.
“That is our task,” he said. “Not to fight against modernity. But to shape it consciously.”
He said “consciously” with an emphasis that revealed that consciousness is work.
“Not to demonize the smartphone,” he said, “but to use it as a tool – instead of as a numbing agent. Not to ban consumption, but to embed consumption in meaning. Not to be perfect, but consistent in small routines.”
He paused briefly.
“And above all,” he said, “to know your own meaning.”
Hans felt how this sentence went straight to his heart, not as pathos, but as a stab.
“For if you know your meaning,” said Dr. AuDHS, “goals become clear. When goals are clear, organization becomes meaningful. When organization is meaningful, routines emerge. And when routines support you, freedom arises.”
The sentence was like a clockwork. It ticked.
“And then,” said Dr. AuDHS, and his voice became warm again, “then what we could do as children suddenly becomes possible again: to live in the here and now. With joy and focus. With health and strength. With community and meaning.”
He looked into the room as if he wanted people not only to understand it, but to believe it.
“And if we succeed in that,” he said, “then that is actually the best definition of a good life: a life that does not just feel busy – but fulfilled.”
He paused. One could hear, outside, a bird – one could swear it did it on purpose – place a note into the landscape.
“Thank you very much,” said Dr. AuDHS.
The applause did not come like a storm; it came like rain: first scattered, then denser, then even. People clapped because people clap, and because, in such rooms, in such houses, one likes to have the feeling of having heard something essential. Hans clapped too. He did not clap enthusiastically. He clapped correctly.
And while he clapped, he felt that something inside him did not come to rest.
For the speech had, like every speech that is good, created a restlessness: it had furnished what one already knew with new images; and images, esteemed reader, dear reader, cannot be removed from the head as easily as numbers.
When Hans later lay in his room – the curtain half drawn, the light dimmed, the blanket neatly laid over his legs, as if order were a sleep aid – he heard the clock in his head: twenty-three fifty-nine.
He saw, with closed eyes, the green outside. He saw the red column. He saw the grand piano that was not being played. He saw the last minute that belonged to him.
And the ring on his finger – this little circle that pretended to be jewelry – recorded the wakefulness as if it were an illness.
