January 21, 2012 § Leave a comment
“The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone else. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn’t it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill–he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it.”
The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
January 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
It is easy to be forgotten. It is easy to be lost in the crowd of memory. And if you ask me if it’s easy for me to forget things, yes, indeed it is. Whether I like it or not.
Perhaps it is this lightness that I love about the transience of life. The transience of goods. The transience of memories. Even the transience of people.
My oh my, we can be forgetful of that effervescence, that lightness. I am unburdened.
Yesterday was a thousand years ago.
So what do they mean then, these things people hand you, uninvited: pathetic pleas, abrasive comments, vulgar ugliness, shameful aggression?
They are what they are: pathetic pleas, abrasive comments, vulgar ugliness, shameful aggression. They are the reflections of their owners: pathetic, abrasive, ugly, and shameful.
What are these attacks then? What are they, when you easily forget them? When instead of resenting them you barely realized that you’ve passed them.
Nothing, if you ask me. Because I believe in beauty, and the lack of beauty. Everything else is transitory, everything else is insignificant.
The effervescence is in me.
January 9, 2012 § 9 Comments
Have you ever just reached a moment of truth that is most completely and privately just yours?
She was thinking about an episode with this man. A person whom she allowed some time to get to know but never quite gotten anywhere with.
Love is indeed subjective.
A desire of love that is unfulfilled can instantly turn into hysteria and rage. A longing so chronic and yet acutely felt can imitate love, or the subjective interpretation of love.
What was so mistakenly interpreted by the man as love that night, her surrender to her emotions?
She thought about it for a bit before coming to her conclusion. The problem was that she had never surrendered her story to the man. She had never addressed her soul to the man. She was simply addressing her soul to herself, to her superficial self. That night, she was allowing herself an honest confession, she was letting her body meet her soul and utter its truth. It could have been any man sitting with her that night, but the moment of truth was hers alone. She had failed to share it with anyone, even when she was with another person who happened to be that man that night, and therefore, the victory of this truth belongs to her alone.
He, of course to his disappointment with further rage, had nothing to do with it. As she stated what she wanted to say, she was looking far away. He was there, but she was not with him, she was with herself, with the present moment.
What was trivial and amusing was the fact that her friendliness, not even friendship, was hysterically being read as love by the man.
But how could you ever feel deeply connected, when you’ve never invested anything in the first place? Let’s not get overwhelmingly dramatic, but when one is not responding, one is simply uninterested, so she thought.
She hates drama, she has enough of it on most days. She does not add complications to her lives, her energy was better spent elsewhere. The days go on with passion, or with tedium; regardless they’re still hers. She has people inside of her life, and she has some outside. And at the end of the day, it’s her decisions, her truths. Love is indeed subjective, and the victory of this truth is hers alone.
*Quiet evening, never ending torrent download, and the discovery of Milan Kundera.