Now I know how valuable is darkness. If there’s one thing that civilization has lost and should mourn, it is darkness. It lets the mind gather its thoughts and maybe think about a few things that it doesn’t normally do.

I am attempting something I have given up for quite some time. How easy it is to loose the correct mood for writing. I would like to say that what I have given up is writing, but it’s bigger and more difficult than that. What I have given up is a self. That self used to keep producing the writing. It used to make me feel. I don’t get that emotional urge any more these days. Practice could get a habit like writing back. But could it bring back a self?

There, we have lost the darkness again. I know light is convenient and necessary, but is also obscene in some way, especially after you have been in the dark for some time. The darkness does not disturb. It lets you collect yourself. It is so polite. The light is loud. It crashes into the setting and stays, moulding the environment in its own way, the way it was set up by the electricians.

The place I live in is really loud, and full of other people invading into all six of your senses. I wish I could have a full string of wild mountains all around me, and loads and loads of darkness. I have no idea what I’m going to do with that, but I guess it would get me somewhere.

Feynman once said of learning that it’s like the motion of clouds in the sky. If you keep watching it, it doesn’t seem to move. But you suddenly realize it has progressed since a certain time ago. This is true of all change, including the change of a self and its connections. My friends are changing. My relationship with them is changing. My life is changing. My wants are changing. My happiness and sadness are changing, and my secret despairs are changing. And there’s usually too much light and noise here to feel and analyse all that. I think I need a bit of silence and darkness. For example, I can feel a little of that self now. It’s afraid of the light. I know that if I switch on the light now, it will just leave. So maybe if I have enough silence and darkness, I will be able to harvest that self again. It is important that I do so, because there was something of key importance in that self I don’t want to see off.


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Getting Used To

A really bad thing about humans is that they get used to things. They get used to anything, any new thing, however unique or peculiar or unforeseeable, provided the exposure is long enough. That is a bad thing because we forget to look at things in the proper, natural way, and realize how beautiful, how complex, or how incorrect they are.

For example, we have had the time to get used to all the numerous signs of civilized life. We don’t think twice about the most peculiar things around. Like a guy riding a bicycle. That’s essentially a vertically elongated earth creature wearing coloured fabric manufactured from natural materials of its planet and shaped like its body. It’s perched on a contraption of its own design, with two large circles which rotate when the creature moves its hind limbs. This whole creature + its contraption system moves around, and we never bat an eyelid.

Like spectacles. That’s two pieces of glass cut carefully and hung on a frame in front of the eyes. It’s an instrument he’s carrying around, and not just him, but many others. Burt we don’t look at spectacled individuals weirdly. Now if today a guy chose to wear a really large metal collar with an attached gyro-wheel around his neck, he would be ostracized, laughed at, and would generally garner a lot of interest. But if everyone started wearing gyro-collars, we would get used to it in around one and a half years, and there would even be roadside billboards advertising the latest fashion in gyro-collars. Even important and grave people would talk about gyro-collars.

I’m not saying that it’s not right to get used to new things. That would be stupidly narrow-minded. There is no reason to think that getting used to natural jungles, rocks and animals is any more justified than getting used to our inventions. I am mourning how we forget the proper way to look at things, how we forget to start from scratch, disposing all assumptions and conventions. There are certain things we should feel amazed at. Like trees and animals and ourselves, because life is such a wonderful and magical thing, even more so scientifically. Like aeroplanes and economy. There are things that are so peculiar that we should, following our natural impulses, feel funny about them. Like clothes and haircuts and boasting about cars. Just imagine a crawling alien creature population in an alien planet making a whole market out of different ways of shaping the slimy hair on their hindquarters. Don’t take this as a joke. If you laugh at it, you are laughing at you and your own civilization, and what you are part of. Really think about it.

There are things that are incorrect, but we have got – or made to get – used to them. And even though we would still have a nudging feeling if we think about them, that’s normally very weak and we really don’t ever give them a thought. Like exiling sex from normal conversations and making it a sort of half-taboo. Or different religious, or regional prejudices and narrow ideas about others. Or never thinking about the purpose of our existence and about the nature of this life and being. It’s all because of this deadly ability of being able to acclimatize and adjust, and fit into what everyone is doing.

Sometimes it’s good, as for a falling Level Zero, but not when Level Zero is going up, or including new points not experienced before. But this can’t be helped. Nothing can be done about it. Now and again I might screw my eyes and concentrate and try to look at things from a neutral and fresh – almost alien, viewpoint – and get a laugh or two, or maybe a couple of revelations that might make me pause.

But then acclimatization would again set in, and life would go on as ever.


It’s funny how, from time to time, you can snip off a huge chunk of your life that’s been trailing behind you towards the past end for some time, and let it drift away, so you can be a little more weightless while walking forward. Like an iceberg breaking off from time to time. You can watch the pieces that have floated away, but never actually get them back. Not funny. It’s not funny at all. It’s actually a little sad, I think.

I, for example, have packed my latest detached piece of life partly inside an orange and white packet in my cupboard and partly inside a folder in my computer. Something makes me open the cupboard and stare at the packet sometimes, switching momentarily to being a second person, looking at myself and wondering what I’m thinking about, whether I’m thinking the things that people in these situations are supposed to thing. What do they think? Are there socially approved lines along which such people are supposed to think?
Something made me open the folder today. A lot of chat logs. It was surprising that I’d been able to bury so much amount of my past. Saw a few photos. Fear. It’s funny how you once endow such things with destiny and providence and other stuff like the ones Paulo Coelho always shouts about. And then you see it’s no longer so.

I guess when you are trapped in a circular, spiraling maze like this all the time, the only way out is to sometimes think it’s funny. The conservation of mass and energy is a cruel hint of the circular, pointless nature of everything. Why don’t the scientists get it? Why are they so dumb?

Look, hey, let me tell you something. I’m a weird being. I don’t miss my past as much as I ought to, and I worry about that. And I’m always guilty that I’ve let myself forget my childhood, my old friends. For the little time we’re here, I guess we all try to embrace life as hard as we can. It’s because we don’t know where we were before we first opened our eyes, or where we will be after we last close them. That’s not a good enough excuse to suppose that the things in those two intervals were (a) same and (b) unpleasant and frightening. Look at an amoeba. The thing’s got nothing called fear. Fear is a learned response due to the constraints of being a human. So it’s logical to suppose that when you die and aren’t a human any more, you won’t have any need of your instincts, including fear. Hence, it’s not reasonable to be afraid of what lies beyond.

Talk about a hypocrite.