The Mole

Beware of the truth which when given to you makes you placid and indifferent. Lest you want your truth to bore you. Beware of this truth because it is not a gift but something you have collected as a trophy for your previous accomplishments. You stare at your trophy as in a mirror admiring your own image in it. And it gives you pleasure, the pleasure of possession. This is why you decided to encash. Does anyone know of this great pleasure?
But what else? Where do you go with it? Where do you grow with it? Like a permanent mole on your face, it distinguishes you from others; but it also sets you part eventually isolating you. How can you go back now? How could you go back to playing a game, whose victory you have already celebrated with your trophy? Doesn't the muddy water bind you to stagnancy?
Can't live with it, can't live without it: like two strange cosmic lovers who kill their love only by the virtue of being together; but who love each other deeply only when they are apart, when they do not even know each other. Is your truth too a counterfactual, something that you cannot show to anyone, something that does not belong to this world, to this earth? Are you ashamed of your mole?

A personal touch

Back in the US after a busy and, nonetheless, eventful summer. I went back to my home country, and for some reason (which, of course, I am aware of) I felt more distant and alienated from its people, its culture, its noise, its buzz, it spirituality and its superficiality than ever before. I barely survived!
Also went to Europe, and lived in Germany for two months. I have never felt more at home than in Europe. It's in my blood this place- this continent's stoned streets, its corners and alleys, its people - both dead and alive, its architecture, its pretentious philosophy, its lofty finesse, its style and music. Even its 'common' people are acceptable to me! - This is the kind of freedom I experienced - for the first time in my life!
Now I am back into a retrogression, with an emptiness in my heart, which testifies to a certain lack of direction that I am currently feeling. I need a new project, a new alibi, an excuse, a new constellation, new planets around me, a rebirth, a new philosophy, a new love to pour into - i am single again! - and hopefully this time the container does not spill over!

Illusions of the few

Few people (the rare ones, the solitaries, the geniuses) walk on earth as if they are hunchbacks, who are burdened by the urgency of a million decisions. In their weak moments they seek kindred souls to share their strange and unique story with them, but to their despair they find none. In their strong moments they see how they outlive every one-sided and oppositional limitation, into which they have learnt to place the predictable paths of other mortals. There is a great unparalleled joy they experience in this later discovery, which is bolstered by the fact that they cannot share this joy with anyone! They also see how impossible it is for them die, to limit themselves, to define themselves, to know themselves! -- the true meaning of the 'passion for the infinite' -- even though in their weaker moments they wish they could die, in order to lose the hunchback's eye and ear which survey and listen to the music and the chaos of the entirety of being. Since, to know oneself is to corner oneself into a particular taste and manner of existence -- and does this require, first and foremost, a very strange and deliberate (?) passion for stupidity that stubbornly decides to turn away from the expansive growth and unity of being, in order to set up its own 'self' (a 'self', therefore, in opposition to the world)?... or is this conjecture itself an illusion, a self-projection? However, during their more speculative moments the few think that the majority of these self-limiters are themselves illusory beings, smoke-screens set-up on the stage of the world to make the latter more interesting and unpredictable; and that in truth these self-limiters know that they are putting on a show for the solitaries, secretly laughing at their crests and troughs, their laughter and tears. In any case, the 'few' do not really comprehend the self-limiters and self-knowers. The latters' mystery is a source of comedy, curiosity, tragedy, nay, life itself for the few. This mystery represents the illusory point of forbidden knowledge, of death.

Shame as pride

Many people (teenagers, women in love, economical men) convert the deep shame they have before themselves into their pride. This is the reason why they want to hide their pride at any price. Occassionally they find themselves obligated to give up the object of their pride (love, life or the world itself), especially when they fear that the source of this object would be revealed to be this very shame/pride. They renounce the object only so that they may go on staying afloat on the surface, go on being proud. Many call this their sacrifice and suffering.