This week is dedicated to intense waiting and pause while actually it cannot get any busier and competing for more time. The stake is getting to a place where I can spend most of my time writing. One needs to earn it and maybe I have been too stubborn because I was determined to have the right conditions on my terms.
Persona1/2. This language even originally meant some form of escapism from my original story. In Hungarian, ‘she’ keeps the pathos, carrying around the pain of somebody who thinks she has been wronged. But actually, she has evolved through growing above petty grievances and always reconfirming the core values that are centred around more understanding. In English, ‘she’ has the willingness to pick more positive tones for the story but no allowance for denial of facts, this was an excruciatingly hard existence. But the truth is more absurd than any fiction: her own narrative only consists of an intellectual world where thoughts, books, and idiosyncratic languages of books make her heart full in a way physical life never could and absurd it may seem physical life almost never meant anything to her. But now as a dutiful child, before she will go she just tries to complete her homework with handling this life that is enclosed by and wrapped into a certain body that carries countless traumas that are not worth mentioning because the mind lives in the universal and the body has become strong and resilient. This disconnection itself is fertile ground and even while she is not writing at the moment, she exists only through it, her lenses, her tentative attempts to describe the gigantic scale of human follies, hers not excluded; standing nevertheless in awe even while lying in bed surrounded by many books and burying herself into the serene and sunny comforts of non-living—it is all about writing.
The plan. There is not much meaning in the mundane unless we can dress it up and rip off its clads. Life is a poor lover while books give all the guilty sensations and richness of experience. There is so little to say about being thrown into life – it seems to me that it is hardly more than tons of homework you need to do well and on time otherwise you will not have enough time to spend time on anything that could give you an exquisite joy: the adventure of the mind. Going on a trip inside of the mind that can imbue impressions, and a wealth of information, visiting the recesses of the mind that can magnify and distort things but if you could just learn how to use your mind and subconscious mind then you become de facto closer to a kind of freedom unimaginable and inaccessible to most.
But let me get back to the Plan. Writing kept me alive, writing has been my sustenance, and writing is my elixir through which I could reborn many times, not metaphorically but in its actual meaning. (My favourite all-time joke is by László Mérő, the mathematician, who said, ‘I don’t believe in past lives because I did not believe it in my past life either’.) It seems to me at times that I have died in this life and other lives many times and consider this whacky if you will, I don’t really care for I am not saying this in the belief that it would make me more interesting – I am saying this because what interests me is the exhaustion of being totally reborn all the time and the dreary boredom of it. Please let me come home. From an age I have been planning to die as a perfectionist – at last, forever but leave in love that I believe comes from doing my homework foremost; understanding and appreciating the true value of Everything there is.
In physical life, in this body, in this narrative of whom I am supposed to be, I have been trying to create circumstances in which I could focus entirely on writing but somehow in the physical world there were bitter struggles, the solitude that kept depriving me of time but I came to realise that I have all the time in the world in mind because I started to absorb how the mind handles time and I am in this interesting new phase where I withhold writing as I withhold breathing that evidently will not and cannot last long but I keep patting myself on the shoulder, hey this is an exquisite new experience, I am procrastinating writing to tick off the bloody homework of living. Heck, nobody told me it will be this dreary. In my physical life, I started to own up to my true identity, which is the role of the eminent pupil who is generally disliked, the teacher’s pet because I do my homework all the time and if I don’t, I would report myself for not doing them well enough. I am so disliked for being the teacher’s pet that there is a general tendency that everyone would like to bring me down from the pedestal they think I placed myself not knowing that it is perfectly off the mark because their impression is that I rudely ignore them and just doing my homework because I am racing with time – I live in a different time scale where I cannot be touched and it comes across as arrogance, in other words, maybe I universally make others super rejected by being so blatantly untouched by them. But back to homework. In my book to pass you need to reach 92% in scores because this is the only way I could make everyday life for myself exciting is to compete with time, there is not much to compete with others because partially not in the game and ironical as it is we can rarely be on the same page.
Thus, the plan is to enable this breakthrough that is very close. The breakthrough in itself where the physical life and writing, my Mephistophelian, fresh, enchanted life of the mind can at last merge—and can submerge into the brain. … I always do some studying and always do art, I am painting currently which is very liberating because there, I do not have any expectations of standards, or quality it is just pure play, these are all ways within which I am conserving myself for the Great Submerge after the breakthrough when I can start living my physical life through writing and I know I am lucky because my idiosyncrasies finally will link the best of all worlds. When this submerge happens, I might not even ever write a single word that will be ever published. It does not seem to be all that relevant. However, equally, I might, it is a decision that I can make within my remit but it does not feel important… it seems to be the most uninteresting compared to waiting to see the great submerge, an inherently rich life happening where I am safe to understand and examine the gigantic petri dish of …. some wriggling living organisms that seem to be needing compassion I actually have in abundance and would be free to convey at last. It seems to me I have been withholding my passionate love at last, I could live and pass it over in the peace that I can pass over something pure. In other words, all is good: I am hoping to be united with my eternal love of epistemology soon. I may not live in the traditional sense of the word but I am conserved, mummified and saved by the love of the adventures of the mind in a way that no one can even start to imagine and can be perfectly at peace in wandering and exuding this love that can only come from understanding and loving the hierarchy and order of Things.
In other words, this week is partly about ‘waiting’ for the great Submerge that will result in a new persona that will affect writing. I have to warn you: anything can happen.