Fading…
The things around us are fading.
What once held power (of fear, of guilt or even shame) over us,
will be but another memory in the lines of pictures in our heart.
Maybe not tomorrow, but certainly the day after that.
Things and people you thought you’d never survive.
Words you thought you’d never say.
Acts you were so sure of never doing.
It will all happen… and then fade.
And wouldn’t that be the other side of the coin? Wouldn’t that be what’s happening after the sublimation and the morning after? ‘The Evening after maybe’…
When the sun gingerly goes down over the hill of our missed chances and the rotten bits and pieces of shattered dreams. When it leaves nothing but a bright hue over the ‘spectacular’, the ‘terrible’, the ‘how could you?’s… and when even the burial ground of all things lost – that lies so deep within you – is given an aspect of beauty by the light and the colour. You close your eyes and think back at that one moment when you felt like being an adult for the first time – a grown up. And you’ll remember how that felt like, good or bad. It will all chain together then and nothing will have been in vain.
All will pass. And we’re created to overcome everything in the end.
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Opinions
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if people could find the force or the opportunity to tell you what the really think of you.
How would that turn out?Well, apart from the fact that most people would either qualify me as naive, unsuspecting on one side or bullying, tough and icy on the other – I guess things would just turn out how they always do.
I’ve always said (since the first lost friend): it’s not that I don’t like the people, but that people don’t like me… most of the time they hate me.
Obviously there must be something in my ways that drives people to react in certain ways. Sooner or later they cannot stand the sight of me. And whatever was there before, whatever hint of love, tenderness, respect or even simple sympathy will eventually turn to hate, antipathy and antagonism.
I’m not even half as mysterious as people would like to see me. Not even half as brilliant or strong as they’d see. The hate-fraction of course would completly agree with that thought.
It always comes down to the one idea: you always see what you want to see in the Other.
And since one of the main tactics of the haters is to antagonise me, this is for all of them: if you’re not ready for the work it takes to see them for what they are, and if you cannot stand the tougher rides in this life… bugger off…
Take your petty ‘if only’s and ‘do’s and ‘don’t's to someone else who actually still gives a damn.
I have spoken. Another step towards my own personal freedom…
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End of an Era
I woke up this morning after maybe 4 hours of sleep and I am not feeling that less sombre than I did yesterday.
The difference to my normal mental state, is that this time there is a good reason for it… or at least it is good enough for me, although some people might beg to differ.
‘The end of an era…’
How right he was to put it that way. I wonder if he was even aware how much he honoured me in including me into this era.
But since this is internet communication and it takes place on different levels of narration (hmm… my Lit. Prof. would be amazed at the number of levels this can reach…) it is quite possible that the person(s) in question are reading this right now, and thus they will know about the honour and my feelings behind it.
Of course that’s rather my vanity speaking than my actual knowledge of them. But let me have the nice thought that actually some people are reading this. Goes well with my morning coffee.
The era is ending while everybody is getting scattered halfway across Europe. Some of us went off to learn Arabic in the sunnier parts of this world, others went to see the Teutons and hone their discussion-battle skills. Others – such as me – only stayed for a moment, before being swept off to go where the work, the interest and the funding is. And the last two of our little group – the three maids (1) – well, they’re leaving soon. *laughs* We had a wonderful time and it’s possible that neither of my former peers will ever really know how much that time meant for me. After the seclusion and the envy of my Home University, they were the breath of fresh air that gave me back some faith in Academia. It was a joy to work with them and around them. Something that will quite obviously always stay with me. I learnt more in those 12 months of sharing an office with those two fine men than in the years of solitude at my former Departement. About the easiness of sharing, about the mutual fears we all have in this work, about literature, sarcasm and how you can relate to your students without missing the main aspects of teaching.
The truth is, we never finished our project for a portal on resources for the studies of Medieval Philosophy. I still have the drafts and tryouts here. And in fact, I was going through them only some days ago. But who knows, unburied projects are still live projects – as a friend of mine would say – and maybe we’ll get to do it no matter where we are in the world.
And I still haven’t hit them with my book project – well, not how it presents itself now – and that would certainly be a nice next step to keep the relation to those people that were the first ones to show me the way on my long, long path towards wherever I am going…
Thank you.
—-
(1) Following the traditional Medieval saying that considers philosophy to be the maid of theology, we – the unsufferable trio – too considered us to be maids… historians of philosophy, condemned to watch rather than to offer new systems of thought or contributing to political debates, chosing the rather ironical stance of the moraline saturated of contemporary philosophy…
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Sublimation
How often in our days and lifes is the idea more appealing than the actual person or goal? How often is the prospect of something dreaded more appalling than when you’re actually there living through it?
How often do we fall in love with the idea of something that could eventualy become dear, loved or near to us? How often is the sublimated image of someone or something more uplifting than love, life or death itself?
Could it simply be that we’re just afraid of the real thing? Or is it not more likely that like with all things we simply grow bored by everything after a certain moment? And it would seem that these moments get shorter and shorter. Welcome the new Millenium. So maybe we can live better with the images we make up of things. And if this is the case, wouldn’t it stand for a lot of lost loves, sweethearts, friends and interests?
Reading it out on page now makes me think of a stupid common place in that twisted language of mine.
But, what made Romeo and Juliet the icon a eternal love if not the fact that they simply had no chance or time for bickering, door flinging, pottery bashing, first grey hairs and lines and the shock of seeing their lover wake up in the morning with a crumpled face?
And if this was love’s last wisdom, Stendhal was right after all: “The pleasures of love are always in proportion to our fears…”
And if the fear of not loving at all is bigger than the fear of being wronged or to wrong in love… how proportioned will be a love blossoming out of that fear?
A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love.
~Stendhal, “De l’amour”~
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Relation
How do we relate? Through words? Actions? Sweet words spoken to the wind of our vanities?
What happens when all of that isn’t enough?
Do we simply go back to sipping our tea and watch the world pass us by?
Try as I might, I simply may never be good enough
for either the marvelous thoughts of my friends that accompany me through my day,
nor the ones truly loving me for whatever reason only known to them.
Where does my merit lie with the life I am leading?
Detached forever and albeit longing for the simplest and highest things.
Unable to reach out, but dying to simply sigh of pleasure…
A friend of mine hit me in the head a while ago by telling me: ‘I wish I could just hear you say that you’re perfectly at ease for once… it would certainly reassure me…’
Amen to that.
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