Die Erinnerung

Last week, I read a letter from a poet who was lamenting to his friend about how nobody understands him. The letter ended with him lamenting about this very lamenting, about him confessing to his friend about his weakness. I recreated the suffering of the poet in me as I read the letter and for a brief moment relived that pain.
Yesterday, somebody told me about a French philosopher who killed herself on the birth anniversary of her master, who was her favorite philosopher. I tried to freeze that perspective of hers within me that drove her to suicide. I upheld this perspective for a short while to indicate to her that her life was not in vain, that I see what she did, and that, in one sense, this whole world ceased to exist after she died.
And this morning, as I woke up, I imagined a picture of a still unborn child smiling. I understood that innocence, and the untainted purity with which the child saw the whole world. I smiled with the child.
I wondered if the poet, the philosopher and the child were looking at me from somewhere as I was doing all of these things. And the sight of the moon indeed reminded me of the night when the four of us had a great feast together.

Sobriety

Drunk are the waves of the ocean that topple and fall on each other in revelry
Drunk is the wind as it blows its howling secrets on to the trees
Drunk is also the comet that traverses headlong through time periods unawares
And drunk is the shame that hides itself in new attires everyday

Drunk is the statue that strikes your head when you kneel before it
Drunk is your heritage that seeks its origin in an unknown destiny
Drunk is also your solitude that never parts your company
And drunk are all your truths that dress themselves up as lies

Are you not too drunk to even recognize your drunken brethren?

On our Zeitgeist

1. Any existence that does not come to terms with the spirit of its times - however monstrously chaotic this task might be with respect to our times - is nothing but idealism, however 'profound' it may otherwise think it is. It would be pure escapism -- 'all thought, no action'.

2. The peculiarity of our Zeitgeist is its unprecedented greed, its fleeting memory: it devours unabashedly anything that touches its base and strikes its chord, unless it does not confound that thing to hide in the pretext of its own shadows. So who is capable of satisfying this monster of greed? -- Only someone who refreshes every moment with cheerfulness by receiving his energy from an unknown future, and in doing so, submits to the hungry present. He interprets the lack of memory of the Zeitgeist as the eternal youth of the future.