In the back of my mind (or is it my consciousness?), there lingers a burning certainty instructing me that everything I am doing today, that everything I have ever done all through my life, is nothing more than a continuing loss of myself to the world. The world is a cannibal and I its willing prey. How can I fight against something that comes from within and without and from yesterday and the morrow, and is present in every tremor and every minute of my night and day?

No matter how powerful the impulse to resist putting it in words is, no matter how vain the claim I am about to make might sound, there is something out there, I just have to say it, that, for whatever reason in the world, seems to be  genuinely watching over me. How else can I understand my continuing ability to do what others deem impossible without the slightest harassment from our security apparatus? Or is it simply a matter of time, and I am simply deluding myself in the usual conceit of one who has always been lucky and has always managed to land on his feet in the face of his own folly and, perhaps even, unworthiness? Continue reading “Heretical Superstition!” →

Words are never accurate enough or sufficient to convey anything of what they are meant to convey. In this they are indeed like chopped-up memories and remembrances –  always divorced from their original context, always victims to the inadequacies and particularities of the one in which they are vouchsafed unto the world. Yet, words are all I have to tell you who I am. How can you ever really know me then?

Happiness and fulfillment are not things you work for, but things you stumble upon in your aimless wanderings through life. Even the illusion of having a purpose is not a guarantor of happiness. Our souls, it seems, are forever destined to be restless and will only find fulfillment in death. Will happiness be waiting for us there? Can anyone really tell?