Our ways to be free

We know for sure that one of them will drop dead. And not just plain dead. No, the body will be shattered, broken, in pieces. What an ending that must be. What an outcome to something that started so suddenly, so promising. But it seems impossible to imagine any other final scene than a gruesome one. A bloodcurdling denouement. We know that hardly anything is certain in life. But we do know this. This is absolutely going radically wrong.

And it all started so excitingly, so captivatingly, so new. Did we need it? Did it come at the right time? The residents of the Friendly Town will certainly agree. Not that our lives are insignificant. Or directed. We do not live in Afghanistan. Or in the north of Siberia. Our lives are in a way useful, structured, good, and positive. We look after each other. If a neighbour has difficulty walking, we do her shopping. Is someone in need of money? We make sure that person is helped out temporarily. We greet each other on the street, we are members of various associations. Every four years we go to the polls. We appreciate the police officers who drive through our clean and wide streets in their fast but solid cars.

Do we live in paradise? No one in our Friendly Town will agree with that. There is enough to worry about. For example, pine martens are regularly spotted in leafy neighbourhoods. There is also occasional noise pollution. The brass band recently practiced – it was a warm summer afternoon – in their rehearsal space with the windows open. You can imagine that the residents of the elderly home Evening Sun must have complained about this.

But what is missing - but nobody wants to talk about it - is that life is rather boring in our Friendly Town. Our existence is quite predictable. There is no excitement, no adventure, no brouhaha, no maelstrom. Everything is buddy-buddy, everything is familiar. And that gnaws, that preys on our minds. Under the surface. Behind our smiles. In our dull eyes. Along our friendly conversations.

You can imagine the commotion it causes when a tightrope walker strides across a stark wire on a Saturday afternoon. The metal cable is stretched between the Church Tower and the Old Town Hall. Nobody has any idea where this show comes from. And whether someone from the municipality has given permission to make the balancing act possible in public on this weekend.

The fact is that the man shuffles freely and fearlessly – foot by foot – from the late Medieval Sanctuary to the imposing building from the Renaissance period. And where at first amazement prevails, the mood quickly turns to concern, to anxiety. The man carries a long pole to keep his balance. But there is no safety net to be seen anywhere. Has he forgotten it? Has someone taken it away?

There is a strange and unreal atmosphere in the city centre. We see what is happening with our own eyes. The cable. The man. The long stick. But at the same time, we do not believe it. That this can happen in our own Friendly Town. In our place where everything is known in advance. Where all events, all possible deviations from the normal order, are talked about, for months and years. Talked about? It is being discussed, debated, analysed, reported, reviewed, explained, refused, weighed, and disputed again.

And now out of the blue, some daredevil is performing an act without permission, without an approval, without an announcement. Maybe that’s the reason it has such an impact. Hundreds of people have now gathered on the square between the church and the old town hall. They are all looking with excitement at the stuntman who is slowly making his way to the other side.

Of course, the police are also being noticed. But they are keeping a low profile. That also seems sensible. The man on the rope does not seem very self-assured. Someone next to me mumbles whether it is not a disguised suicide attempt. I do not dare to go that far myself. I give the acrobat the benefit of the doubt. He is a desperado, an adventurer. Perhaps he has had enough of our dull, mindless, sleep-inducing life in our Friendly Town?

Without any warning, I hear suppressed cries. And as if on command, all heads turn in the other direction. From the area of the town hall, a second figure walks over the wire. It is a woman, judging by her elegant, graceful forms. She also carries a long pole to keep her balance. And no safety net for her either.

The first thing that comes to mind is that this is a joint performance. By two friends. By a couple. But strangely enough, they do not react to each other in this way. Even from below on the square, the reaction of the first tightrope walker is visible. He remains standing, irritated. He shouts something to his fellow acrobat. She pretends not to see him standing there. She just moves on.

Is this part of the act? Is this building up the tension? To be honest, I am confused. One person on such a thin wire is already a very exciting activity. Two people is much more dangerous, much more perilous. But when these two athletes also must fight each other? Where does that lead? What will be the unavoidable showdown?

In the meantime, the two daredevils slide towards each other extremely slowly. We – the onlookers - hold our breath. Is this really going on? In our Friendly Town? But off course, in order not to miss a second of the spectacle, everyone has their phone cameras pointed at the two actors. It’s a once in a lifetime event.

Maybe we're not used to anything eccentric like this. That could be the reason why we're all so apathetic and expectant. No one comes up with the idea of ​​getting a safety net. No one drags mattresses onto the square to ensure a soft, cushioned landing.

The fire brigade is also nowhere to be seen. It seems as if the performance of the two harum-scarum is not really taking place. Not in our hometown. Not before our eyes. Meanwhile, the two have come closer to each other to within a meter. Just a few more steps and they could touch each other. What are they going to do? Fight? Push? Will they make it a competition? Who is physically the strongest? Or will it be more a matter of psychological warfare. So, it's about who is mentally the strongest, the robust one.

They stand right in front of each other. Like two neighbours who have a dispute about the height of a fence. We see their mouths moving. We don't know what they're saying to each other. But the words don't seem to be friendly. Their bodies stiffen.

And where before we were curious about a competition, a match between the two tightrope walkers, you now feel that we want something more. Fighting and rivalry don't seem to be enough. Without an agreement, without consultation, the crowd parts. The space under the two contestants, the place where a massive safety net can normally be found, is now left completely free.

A tension arises. Like during a boxing match. Or an excitement that you can find during a bullfight. Do we smell blood? I see wild looks in the eyes of the bystanders. People crave for a sensation. Who will fall first? Or do we not want one of them to fall? Would we rather have them both tumble off the rope? It seems as if all the pent-up boredom and monotony is projected onto those two people above us. Their fall, their blood is like a sacrifice for the laziness, the sluggishness of the inhabitants of the Lovely Town.

There is now an actual fight between the two hotheads. There are threatening movements. The rope swings dangerously up and down. There is a cheer. The woman staggers and can only stand on one leg. Miraculously, she manages to regain her balance.

Then the man leans forward and whispers something in her ear. The woman's face relaxes. It is difficult to see, but there seems to be a twinkle in her eyes. They nod to each other; they touch each other's arms briefly. Before they turn around and walk back.

We should be relieved. We should applaud. After all, so much blood has already been shed in our world. But we feel that we have been tricked, been outwitted. We were so close. To a sensation, to a real scandal. And now? Are we expected to go back to our terraced houses? To our couches, ready-made meals, TV programs? Should we return to our old, listless lives?