English change




Main page / Main / Stories / Something

[Unknown string ""]


    Charles Darwin was born in 1809. He was an outstanding scientist and his theory of evolution was first described in the book “On the Origin of Species”. It was published in 1859 and regardless of being accepted by the scientific community of that time, his theory was an object of the virulent abuse from theologians. Darwin is an author of other scientific works as well. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. God save us from being such a paragraph in an encyclopedia.

    Today, when I was leaving my house I smelt a special scent of the morning, this scent witnessed, reminded and challenged.


    Integrating wisdom is vagueness, meaninglessness and stupidity. Morality, pietism, solipsism, automatism, meat mincer, windowsill, flashing TV – this row is endless, this line is hypnotic, this order is deadly. Check the money before it leaves the till. The customer is always right. Dura lex, sed lex (the law is harsh, but it is the law). Do not give it a chance, do not be in the wrong place at the wrong time, first catch a hare, do not trouble the trouble. Be ready. Measure thy cloth ten times. I love life, I love affection, I love to stretch out in bed in the mornings, I love to feel solitude as a redeeming suffering, which is like a shell, and a silver thread can flash from time to time within, leading to something unknown.

    Have a look, the yellow lampshades, antique furniture, oval pictures in oval frames and a fresh bunch of flowers in a Japanese vase – harmonize so beautifully. This is my nice and little room, be comfortable.

    I would crunch these concrete walls with my teeth. Let me eat this vase, this dressing gown with slippers and these pastures of heaven. Madness in the garments of humbleness. Insane fury. What a dog is thinking, how a pine tree is growing, where a hedgehog lives – we are surrounded with the humanized nature, with sordid ghosts of sentimental debility. I see differently. The dog has a moist nose, her sides are heaving, the tail is ready wag and her eyes playful. The pine tree has a moist nose, her sides are heaving, the tail is ready wag and her eyes playful. I see it all differently. I am looking, and there is the essence of the moment. I do not live, and my life is in it, I do not breathe, and my breath is in it. How can it be otherwise? A light smile that came off the eyes, penetrates like the smoke from a bonfire, and it is expurgatory and painful.

    We will be, we will become, there are many of us, there are not many of us, they are needed, seven by eight, why is everything so complicated, why, is it not? No, it is not. In my opinion it is not. We leave our traces. We always do it, and our traces stink and this nasty odour is catching up with us and smothers us. The scream is brief, but its smell thrills the rotten brain for a long time; experience is stillborn, they don’t need it, they have their malodour. It is enough for them. Let them stink. As for me, I will experience. The thought, being born in a voluptuous moment of passion, must live humbly and with taste, then die, dissolve, and if all its life is just a flash of a moment, let it be a flash, if it lasts a day – let it be a day, it’ll die and won’t leave a trace in me and won’t block a path for others, it won’t become a mausoleum and won’t make a knot.

    “This spark will not settle with neither the father, nor the son, nor the holy spirit, nor the trinity while each of these are encompassed in their singularity. I truly say this light will not settle with fertile subsistence of divine nature. I’ll tell more and it’ll seem even weirder: I swear with happy truth that this light needs more than the simple stiffness of the divine essence that gives away nothing and absorbs nothing; and even more: the light craves to know where this essence comes from, it wants a simple reason, a silent desert of uniformity, where there is no father, no son, no holy spirit; in inner depths, in nobody’s dwelling – that is where the light finds contentment and there it is more unified than in itself; as a foundation here is just peace, motionless in its own. Thus the purified and enlightened spirit submerges with divine darkness, silence and incomprehensible unity; in this submerging it is losing everything alike and unlike, it loses itself in the abyss and knows nothing of God, of itself, of anything similar or dissimilar and of nothingness evermore, because it is now deep in the Divine Unity and has lost any distinction.”

    I am told I am a jerk, a scumbag, I must be crushed, cut into pieces, and what is left to me is only to listen to it, to listen and be aware that the abyss is bottomless. Spectacular pre-evening skies, thick clouds, fresh conifers, snow on the fallen leaves. At this moment you are the absolute same beauty to dream about, possible only to see and feel sometimes, but impossible to merge with. Like forest that is next to me but not mine, like mountains that are in my soul but I am so far away from them – for me you are both sea and mountains and forest – it is all you, such a wonderful little girl.

    Even on a dry branch there are flowers.

    Enthralling melody of unknown instruments, which has no tune or any other attributes that people know of, pierce out at times through the singing of a babbling brook, the rumble of a train, the rustle of the leaves. But there is also another melody – a plurality of brief experiences that is not being burdened with anything human (and thus that is too human), occasionally develops into a grandiose melody of destiny, nearly unendurable for the inner human senses of hearing. The one who has heard this melody, knows there is nothing beyond such a grandiose chorus that is performing by billion-voiced world, knows that here he touches the innermost enigma, he takes the heart of the world into his grasp.

    Occasionally it seems to me I do not exist. Do not exist at all. It seems as if a light gust of wind can disperse the dust of me like a street-cleaner sweeps away fallen leaves from the pavement, and together with them there will be swept of what was called “me”. I will revert into what I have been created from – into dirt, wind, snow, curiosity. The following picture obtrusively emerges before my eyes, as if far away in the mountains, outside of time there are old men in the profundity of their hearts. Their destiny being incomprehensible, they had the fantasy to connect all intangible flows of mind and create a living creature and equip this creature with all that is needed for a human to say he is a human, so they equipped their toy with whatever they could – emotions, impressions, memories, thoughts, love – everyone of them gave something and a man came into being. Will anything remain when their fantasy and interest to have the toy cease to exist? The flows will revert and that moment I will simply disappear. It seems to me they are giving me a chance to solve this issue – whether I am going to be interesting enough for them. Will I be able to enthrall them with the intensity of my sincerity?

    When I am listening to Matia Bazar, I am captured with such a sweet thirst of death. Maybe, it is not death after all? Maybe, this is exactly life? My heart cringes and I see a reflecting glint of the sun somewhere in the depth of myself. Inexplicable love and death go together hand in hand to the ferocious splash of happiness.

    Possibly I am funny. Possibly I look like a hunter for a remedy from solitude and depression, resemble the souls consumer, but how can I say, can explain that all I want is just to show how close, next to us there is SOMETHING…

    A horse and a hedgehog were walking in the mist of Kronstadt, and there was only one leaf for the two of them, and this leaf was dancing close to them and away from them, like Lois de Broglie of the dreams of my childhood, like Berdyaev’s sinister infinity, like the phallus-like hindu symbol, this leaf hinted on something unthinkable, i.e. there was, in general, something softly spineless and cruel-hearted in this cheerless picture of the fibrillating leaf. I saw a dream of a spider dangling his legs. Couple of months ago I met a girl with a man’s return address. Then I wrote it down, now I discovered it. Androgynous savour. Genital stereo. Goggling echidna. Tasty vitriol. This is how that spider was laughing at us, he was laughing at the ugly education that peoples call conscience. Conscience is like timber fungus, it is like a mushroom, but actually it is just cellulose. As if it is part of your psyche, but in reality it is just cellulose. This is what I am seriously thinking about. Quite seriously. “What is your name? (what are you called?)” – I asked her. Called – where to? If you are called, you have to go somewhere. What does a person have to feel if he is pathetically called to death? I remember snow squelching out from under my shoes, sloping  ice and my firm decision: “If my cats do not hold me, I will bite the ice with my teeth”. Raising my ice-pick up like a flag, went to a place where nobody called me, and I was happy there. An ocean of flowering pomegranate trees in the Tzinandali valley. The surf of the flowering sakura on the hillside of the Fudzi – what about that snail, is it still crawling or has it already finished its journey and thus the time of instantaneous poems and everlasting love finished?

    To be like a torrent, like a stream, just to flow.

    When I look at an old man who is dragging his feet along the street with a dirty bucket in his hand, wearing rubber boots in spite of the heat, I see in his eyes that for him nothing is achievable, no goal can infiltrate into his head, he has neither energy, nor time to realize it. There is nothing except what surrounds him at the moment – this street, this burning heat, all the world reflects in his head but leaves no trace, like the moon in a puddle. There is something in it that triggers a wish to stop. To stop completely. To freeze in a way that the world freezes with you. To experience it now. When you are strong enough to deal with it and to accept it as the energy of life and not as a terror of hopelessness.

    Risking your life is such a minor thing. This is what everybody is doing – what other word can describe their dull vegetating existence? But risking death – risking death – holy Moses!

    Explosions of laughter, violent whipping, screams, gestures, broken clouds, scent of rotten grass – this is how I calmed down my mind.

    When there is no music – then the melody of Samadhi is born, when there is no passion – then the passion of Samadhi is born, when there is no mind – then the mind of Samadhi is born. When all the three are born, they die and Samadhi is born. When Samadhi is born, there is nothing else to say.

    When this morning I left my home, I smelt a certain scent, it was the scent of bird’s shadow, it was the scent of whispering of the nearby tree, it was the scent of a crack in the pavement.

    The blind see only the blind, the deaf hear only the deaf. I rather expect nothing here. Every day takes me further. Something is slipping away irretrievably, and I feel it with my whole body and soul, with everything within me. You cannot make holes in the eyes to see the light. It is from inside that you see, you should come in the same way – from inside, which means from inside yourself and it also means you must leave in order to come back. So farewell.

    The state of mind outside of wherever. The state of mind, when a thought is not to be born, a clean surface on the ocean, a revealed profoundness. A stone submerges deep, then disappears, waters cover it and no waves emerge. A face of a man, looking at water, meets his reflection, and behind the reflection there shines through only bottomless depth.

    I try to search for unusual experiences. For example, I imagine that I will be soon killed and I feel the cold that embraces me, and the sparse forest that must accept my body, gets an undertone of an inexpressible fragrance of eternity. Is it a riot of consumptive fantasy? I don’t think so. It is more like a way to touch new chords of perception of the world, to get away from attitudes stereotypes. Feelings acquire more transparency and freshness and through them I start seeing timeless core of existence of the colour of steel. Or I imagine that I am sitting under the tree of Samadhi, here all false responsibility fades away, and even maybe Samadhi emerges. Certain complexes of experiences as if shift the perception into an unfamiliar level. The craft of matching such complexes is unconditionally the greatest of art, maybe it is the essence of art.  Of course, everybody finds this for himself, and what is more amazing, is that many people find the same effect. The form of the art is very close to me, especially when it is expressed in Japanese hokku and tanka. A number of images – and an explosion of shifting into a new quality of perception follows. Question: how versatile are those worlds where my perception moves to? But definitely there is at least one common factor, and this is the delight of perceiving the world differently. The pattern of shifting perception prepares me for discovering the path to what is the most appropriate for me – to Samadhi.

    The noise that interferes with concentrating and submerging in yourself, can be heard only when your mind is burdened with thoughts. When your mind becomes what it has been in its nature before the thought appeared, there is no interference. Interference is something that arises in the middle of the flow and blocks it. If there is no flow, there is no interference. When there is no flow, there is no interference, then there is no absence of the flow, no absence of the interference as well. This is when the flow takes place. The one who knows – will understand. Why am I not in Samadhi at the moment? This is the only question I want to ask myself, when there are questions at all.

    When this morning I was leaving my house, I smelt the scent of death.

    What really overwhelms me is the transience of what is happening. Nothing is stable in my world. The world of people, where everything is stable, consistent and predetermined, related to the feeling of duty and fear, is even worse. There is overall decomposition. Openness of the heart to the other open hearts generates an amazing splash of love, which is mad in the sense that it doesn’t take into account anything, even itself. This splash is timeless as it regenerates every moment and does not take place anywhere else, neither in the past, nor in the future, not even in the present – this is the midtimeness, the absence of duration. When the situation is over and covered with a layer of light dust of the recent evening event, the new world arises before your eyes, but this world does not have the two hearts already, there is only a delicate lay of memories , like a thin vapour of mist that is unavoidably dispersed under the rising morning sun… Both death and life merge in the moment of inevitable farewell – both death and life find here the neutral zone, where they will make peace on the feelings of spilt blood, where their hands will unite over our hands and our glances will intertwist in the gloomy light of charming flashes of the everlasting dawn. This is the dawn of a new mankind, this is the storm of changes in space and time, but every particle that is involved, is groaning and squealing in the millstones of Kali. Within this circle there is a time-ravaged hut where old men dwell, so old that it seems they are covered with moss, their beards are strings of eternity, their hearts are estranged. But I do not want it. I better enter the eye of a cyclone and be torn into pieces and dispersed over the ocean, at least my soul will be free in the vastness of space.

    I never read what I am writing.

    Hundreds of kilometers around there is white snow, white skies, white peaks, the howling wind strips the rocks and dusts them with snow again. I am alone in the middle of this terrifying eternity, and I cannot make a step towards my beloved, the deep snowdrifts will swallow any effort. Horror. Purifying horror. I accept it with gratitude, as I know that it will sweep away with its violent broom all minor, all alien, and there will be left only a furious need for love, a cruel passion screwing my body and my soul itself, and when this cyclone has passed  into eternity over the tall mountains peaks, then a crystal pureness will eventuate and through it you will see what is incomprehensible neither to the mind, nor to the intellect, nor to the heart. A fierce note of the autumn wind. I will never forget this while I live. Waves in my eyes. Poems pieces. Chilly sensation. Heart beating. Fists are clenched. The glance penetrates everything, and even a vacuum is not an obstacle for it.

    I am already 30. Some of my hair are grey. I am looking at them and realize that sincere feelings are to be paid for. One day the power reserve will run low. One day I will leave this world, these people that I love more than life, these animals that I love more than many people, these mountains with their endless terror, this sea with its high waters. I will leave, and they will leave, and where shall we all meet? Where shall we find ourselves? My beloved, where shall we find each other?

    Things and activities we occupy ourselves with – I remember times, when I was interested indeed in something. I was interested in languages, mathematics and physics, I was in a quest for something in psychological essays and in the philosophy of Neo-Platonists, I was chewing over people’s stories that were far from me and unknown to me, I was crying over the miseries of literature characters and I was happy with their happy ends. I know a lot of people who have been doing this before me and are doing it now. I do not take into account those who are doing it as it’s necessary, due to the profession. I think of those who find recumbence in it, and I do not understand them. If you look honestly at these things and the activities, you will see that they return to dust. Characters, regardless of being imagined or not – are only characters. Science is only science. Everything is limited with a subject of study. Any activity is limited with its subject. Sooner or later it will eventuate in an impoverishment of the soul. Of course, you can endlessly make an effort to cultivate and support your interests, but it’s only during the rare minutes of relaxation and peace of mind. When the period of energy decrease ends, you again will be at the top of the crest and exposed to all winds and carried away. Maybe I am just sick? No, I see the stages of my journey, everything was honest and there is no other outcome, and I would have to do this journey again, if I start from the beginning.  If this is sickness – let it be called sickness. It means I love being sick THIS WAY. It means no need to look back. It means I must get up and go. Go towards myself. Go towards nowhere. I always wanted to love. It is true, regardless of how I was trying to hide it in my childhood and now I do not make a secret of it. I always wanted to love. And I was always moving towards love. Can anybody else say it about himself? I would like to see such a person. I am disgusted with the constructions of those theoreticians who deduce everything to the miserable complex of survival. There is always a well-wisher who easily will explain my need for love with a simple need for love of yourself, to the simple accumulation of attention drawn to myself, to the simple turnover of commodities, where the main asset is attention and feeling of self-esteem. To hell with it, let them explain.

    Who is going to read it? Who, except myself? Honestly, I will not read it, does it mean that nobody will read it? Why do I write it then? Still there is a hope that this piece of paper will find its addressee, a pathetic hope that a bottomless abyss can be crossed by a piece of paper, carried away with the wind of events. Without a hurry it will pass through unthinkable vastness and find its way to THOSE hands, THOSE eyes and become available to THAT heart.

    In childhood she was once swimming and touched a slimy piece of a log with her feet. Since then, even though she is not afraid of swimming, she is afraid of the bottom. Try to comprehend this simple story, try to read it once again, experience it, and you will see that the world of inconceivable penetrates our lives and is carried away, who will dare to stand in the way of this flow? Who will dare to be carried away with this flow? We humbly fold our wings behind our backs, because the wind can blow and how shall we remain on the ground? How shall we keep standing? Show me the one who would be able to keep standing even if he knew that there is upfront something inexpressible, inconceivable, non-existing. When there is a wind in the wings – all you can do is fly. That was a simple story that happened to the little girl, did she know that this story will escort her though her life like a faithful dog? Do we feel, when a simple story happens to us, that it will have an inexplicable, but inevitable impact on our whole life? Sometimes suddenly a random glance, a deliberate word, a nearly exhausting meeting, hardly noticed pause – and immediately you understand – there happened SOMETHING. No more attributes. No matter how deep you look into it, you will see nothing, but still you are aware – THIS happened. This is a mystery. A real mystery, and approaching it – brrrr, makes your blood freeze and your breath halt.

    There are two of me when I am in the mountains – me and the mountain, the mountain that becomes me. There are two of me when the thirst of life and attraction to death fight within me, they are engaged in a dialogue, like me and I. There are two of me when I love, I am the one who loves and I am the one who is loved.

    There is weakness which is not an end in itself, which is weakness only because it estranges from power as of an element that darkens the transparency of perception. This weakness gives away nothing, loses nothing, this weakness is a power of flexibility of a springy branch. This weakness is a flexible side of the power. Different thoughts are born in my head when I am just looking at you. I would decompose them , they are non-constructive and vague, but… I want to tell them aloud. It’s not that I am telling them, I just live in those words when I am telling them to somebody I like.

    Everything that is not clear gives ambiguous sprouts. Everything ambiguous causes multiple meanings, everything with multiple meanings leads to a symphony, a symphony brings harmony, penetrating, dissolving and disappearing, and nothing is everlasting as what has already disappeared.

    Time comes when your dreams become deep and grandiose in their multiple meaning, when you wake up, you know that this was the true reality, as for that pseudo-reality as it was considered before – well, it also has some part of truth, but the part that is filled with rubbish is so big, that… You can use different fuel as a driving power. In any case, to start advancing, all means are good – both sexual drive, and sufferings of solitude, and so on. But the real push forward is given by the energy of love. As an honest experimentalist, as a person that without any hesitations throws away everything untrue, as a person that mercilessly causes suffering to himself and even others in the agony of his quest for truth, I witness that love if the most amazing phenomenon I have faced in my entire life. When the breakthrough happens – and it does happen once – then both the attention becomes the close friend of love, and all my being trembles and vibrates with anticipation of the new life, and dreams become part of reality, and lots of other… Of course I mean love that differs from ordinary possessive love. As an engineer of my soul I say to myself – I take this engine for my car. As a magician I see what profoundness is greeting me, as a man I feel – this is my realization and this is what happiness means for me.

    I can see a lot, and a lot I see, but I just do not look over there – into the future, in what and how it is going to happen. Because I am not a God, I am only a child, just born in Samadhi. It is hard for me to keep being neutral to what I see and it often seems to me that I cannot block my intellect, my stupid human instinct “to make everything as best as possible”, and I interfere in the sacred mystery, breaking the flow. This is why I decided to delay my vision up to a moment when I am absolutely sure that I do not interfere and do not try to DO something with what I see, otherwise everything will be lost, vulgarized, and that predetermination will disappear.

    Having cleared my throat and draped the jacket over my shoulders, I got up from the ground and wandered towards the edge of the forest. Blue grass, trees growing upside down, the lake that leaned on me with its heavy bank – all this was seeing me off, squealing, howling and splashing. Life was bulging over the edge, the world multiplied, the heart was aching. I must make one step. I must make only one step. I do not know where to, but I must. There is such a step, that you must make, but you cannot make it to somewhere. If this step is to somewhere, this means in advance it’s the wrong direction. I was repeating these words as a spell, as bait. The step cannot be made in some direction. It just has to be made and this is all. Just to be made. A simple step. This is a paradox. This is a buggered rotten incomprehension of simple actions. I love simple words, I appreciate simple feelings, I see the original simplicity of love – and now I have to make the effort to learn to make simple steps.

    For the first time I generated this idea long ago, when it was just a rose tale, and there I was more a subject for experimenting than an experimentalist. Years passed, but the tale remained a tale, and a moment came when I already could not consider myself as a passive participant of imagined events. After that there was a long, dull and ordinary life that suppressed my distinctive originality in many aspects. But one wonderful moment my old and dead dream was reborn again in a new form, it curtained my eyes and I could not think of anything else.

    Thus, between the breakfast and lunch I took a decision to build a new world. Emotion is a thing that has duration, this is duration in time, and experiencing is fleeting, it lives only here and now. It is a point with nil duration. It is catharsis. As the power from a combat dagger is concentrated in its razor sharp edge – the edge that has no expanse, – the same is for the experience, its might is concentrated in a moment, where there is no past and no future.

    This is all vanity in the face of some stupid eternity. In any case sooner or later – today, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, you will have to sit quiet on your own and realize that now I have to count not hours, but minutes. Then everything will finish. There is a limit to everything.

    If you are not tied up to a particular moment in your life, then emotions give way to experience, because emotions are always consequences, they are the product of awareness in experiencing, even if it is unnoticed. But pure experiencing differs greatly from emotions, this is the essence of life, and there is one step from the practice of clear experiencing to Samadhi. Transition to clear experiencing is sensed as if it suddenly grasps your breath and you fall into a sphere of some special profoundness and incredibly special life exuberance. This is the main quality of such experience – exuberance. You choke with this feeling of exuberance, you feel that this is the marginal realization. The world opens its incredible profoundness.

    There is a chance in undivided love as well. You can have it when you face your experiences without fear and reproach. A great treasure is there at the bottom of desperation from undivided love, it is available only to strong and passionate people that are capable of descending that deep. This is only for strong, but on the other hand that’s the way of growing power.

    When I hear a girl’s scream from outside – far away, hardly possible to hear, not distinct – whether it is a scream in fun, or a call, it always seems to me that it is me who is called, that somebody can’t wait any more and she went out and screams with hope I will hear her. I muffle my music and thoughts, freezing from inside, I listen and wait, and want to dress quickly, run outside, scream in reply – I am here!!!

    Mountains took the air away from me, love took my earth away from me, people took my belief away, the pain took away my hope. When you open your fist in hopelessness and everything you have slips out of your hands, I am looking at my empty hands and see that everything that has been lost – and my hands can feel again, all that has been lost comes back to life in me. There is something you cannot lose, but every time, when losing it, I forget, and every time I remember, when I find myself again on this earth.

    I noticed that Akutagava, when he wanted to phrase the inexpressible unification of the events, he was using the particle –“no”: Aru sigure-no furu ban-no koto des”. When I am looking at what I have written, I see that I take advantage of the conjunction “and” and often ignore commas – continuity is dearer to me than literacy.

    For the very first time I could turn away and leave immediately. And nothing would happen. There would be an impervious melancholy for something not done, like a betrayal of yourself, but it would not be so painful. But this option is not for me. And this one is evidently for me…

    When I am sitting in the forest by a bonfire, when I came there with a tent for a couple of days or hours, to be in nature, to sit under the whispering trees and read a book and think over my life in this quiet solitude, when all my thoughts are concentrated and do not return to the town and to my concerns – these are the moments, when I am organized, when I smell the scent of the fresh wind and feel how vertical the pines are, how torrentially the moss trails and the freshness of the outside becomes the freshness of inside. When I return, I bring this with me. I do not want to feel like I possess it, this is why whereas others cannot break out from the prosiness, I feel like a traveler by a bonfire – free, organized, fresh and detached.

    There is a number of names that will remain close to me no matter what – they are the creators of what exists in me and with me: Akutagava, Kobo Abe, Kavabata, Fowls, Castaneda, Nicoll, LIosa, Frisch, Krishnamurti, Suso, Tauler, Osho, Nietzshe, Ramakrishna, Milaraspashes, Gazdanov. This is a hypnotizing line of names, when I say them, I freeze and hot frost wraps my heart – I feel myself from inside, I see the endless procession, I hear thunderous silence coming from heart to heart, I hear this thunder ringing out with a crystal stillness of the colour of blood.

    Sometimes, when I wake up, there remains a strange feeling from my dream, and if I do not touch my head with my hands, stay motionless for some time and surrender to this dopey drowse, then I can allow this condition to get more distinct. It is not related, as it seems, neither to the intrigue of my dream, nor to anything else at all, it is weird, coming from the depth and is experienced so anxiously, so differently from anything I have had to face in the reality of sleeplessness or the reality of a dream. It seems it comes from the bottom of the depth. This is a formidable sense – scary and attractive at the same time. Formidable, because it contains a threat to everything that is outside of it, and the stronger the sense of individuality, the flatter shadow seems to be.  Attractive, because this is where my path lies, because it is the penetration into a straightforward experiencing of the vacuum that fills everything.

    A lonely drifter in the worlds of separateness.

    It is believed that a woman lives with a feeling. In reality it is a feeling that lives with a woman. It is believed that a man should be strong. In reality strength demands a man to be on the table – it wants its food. Strength takes a fork of honour and a knife of dignity into its hands, puts a man on the plate of preferences and is chewing and savouring. Strength, feelings – they want to live and they want food for living. But I am not inclined to make sacrifices, I crawl off the plate and go away, leaving just my clothes. Let wind heal my wounds, erase my name drawn on the sand and then the strength will not find me. I am playing hide-and seek. I am a child again. I am blowing bubbles, gawking at sun and stirring my fingers in melted water. Its murmuring and the mirror like surface is telling me something, but I don’t need it.

    Fury is my faithful friend. I do not understand hopelessly polite people building their relationship with other people in a way that reminds me of a jackal’s attitude towards eating – even though the meat has gone off, it is still meat. I do not accept politeness for politeness sake, communication for the sake of communication. I can be rude, I can be delicate, I can be furious, if this fury is directed on breaking the wall between myself and my own stupidity. Where did furious people disappear to? Where are your balls, man? Where are your claws, woman? Fury is not an aggression, it is not a hatred or an irritation, fury is not compatible with all this rubbish. Hatred, aggression, irritation are destructive feelings, they make you weak, they make you helpless, because they are the other side of the thirst for possession, they manifest the consumable challenges to the world. If the world is not the way I want it to be, it makes me irritable and aggressive. Fury is different. Fury is the superhuman intensity of all one’s power to break the wall, this is an aspiration to the light and brightness. Fury is a light feeling. Fury is the last desperate burst in the full intensity of love and affection. The one, who cannot be endlessly affectionate, cannot be really furious; the one, who is not ready to give away life for the sake of life, cannot be really furious. The one, who is not capable of sacrificing himself for the sake of the first person he has come across and has seen in his eyes the reflection of your destiny, cannot be furious. Fury is a special feeling, it can be experienced only by a person, who is inspired and invests his heart into the capability and the need to love. All the rest is not significant enough to trigger fury, and minor-minded people cannot be furious. Those who cannot concentrate, cannot be furious. Fury is not rational, and this is precisely why it is capable to rip me from within my death. Furious Buddha. Fury devours leaving no remains all that is empty and ghostly, furious man does not care about politeness and decencies, he is crunching the wall with his teeth – what decencies can you expect! Fury cannot be directed into something not worthy and imagined, it will just turn away and leave. Fury in itself is selective, it is born in a clash with death. This is why fury cannot be directed to another person, it can be directed to stupidity that kills the soul and dries out the heart, and in this case it is not important whether this stupidity is in me or in you.

    There is within this circle a time-ravaged hut filled with old men, so old that they are as if covered with moss, their beards are the strings of eternity, their hearts are detached. Their old age is blessed, it cannot approach the immaculateness of their simplicity, it cannot achieve and make old those who are not trying to keep young, their energy cannot leave them, because they have sent it away themselves, strength cannot betray them as they have betrayed it long ago, surrendering into the hands of the boundless weakness. The limit of strength is concluded in the original weakness – what can be done to win this thunder-like power of absolute weakness? When a man gives away everything, he becomes invincible, as invincible as a grove, as a meadow of flowers.  . In the face of this fact mountains fall and centuries old rocks break into pieces.

    Sky-blue spaces of the earth of Bodhi – what else is needed?

    What is strange is that I am eating and drinking – but life is still leaving me. What will be left after me? Certainly, certainly, yeah… This is me smiling and saying yes to my memory that is willingly serving me:

    What will be left after me?

    Flowers – in spring,

    Cuckoo – in summer,

    Clean and cold snow – in winter.

    Natural anesthesia – tranquil cold desert, it exists inside every person, and when sufferings become intolerable, the soul finds the path itself and is gliding towards this cold stillness. Submerging this stillness you experience nearly complete happiness, there is no pain, there is nothing. Nearly complete happiness. Empty, crystal, but nearly complete happiness. And only this “nearly complete” remains the sole cloud on the calm heavenly dome. Can I come to terms with this “nearly complete”?

    Everybody has a weak point. Precisely this weak point makes one strong.

    There are ghosts and ghosts around… How can I keep away from becoming a misanthrope? Everybody is shaking from fear, that if you make a step away from your route, indefiniteness is in ambush there, and they all sit in their puddles. I have crawled out of my puddle – and what? Does it mean that now my dilemma is either to leave people or return to the puddle? A person can think that he is building a bridge between the old and the new life, but this abyss cannot be crossed by a bridge, the bridge will never be completed, an abyss between known and unknown is too vast, these are two different ways of living. All these bridge constructions are only good sedatives and the ways of achieving self-complacency. The abyss can be conquered only if you jump, and the jump is desperate and hopeless. Who will say – I am ready? Who of those that have said, will jump? Everybody will jump over, but you do not know it until you jump. I cannot return, where to… to the prison, on my own free will… this is why I feel that slowly, but positively I am leaving, further and further away. What thrills me, my horizons that have opened before me – I even have nobody to show them, because in order to see them one at least must raise the eyes and stop looking at the pavement edges. Every hour I move away hopelessly, and only love can build an incredible connection through these unimaginable spaces – I believe in love at first sight and without second thoughts.

    When I was looking into her eyes and saw a boundless love – what was there in reality? I must ask myself about it now, no, I must reply to this question now. When I was looking into her eyes – what did I see there in reality? Maybe her eyes were just a mirror that reflected my own madness and that was what I saw? Eyes covered with a mirror – there is something in it, you feel bored – you will see boredom, you feel passion – you will see passion. And what about my, what about my heart – isn’t it breaking through, doesn’t it throw away the mirrors? Apparently – no, fear and death must have danced already there at their celebration.

    It does NOT tear where it is thin. Only if this is a subtle feeling of piercing love.

    I do not like to reduce a feeling to understanding. Because understanding narrows down, cuts out and specifies. This way or the other way, understanding tosses aside the whole world for the sake of itself. Contrariwise, the feeling contains the whole world and rejects particularities. Everything emerges from the unknown abyss and you can cast a glance through everything into that abyss. I prefer to look in it through love, no, love itself is the abyss. When your feeling achieves the highest heights, you become silent.  But it turns out there is a higher high, and higher, and higher…

    “If asked – you reply,

    If not asked – say nothing.

    What is concealed in your heart,

    Honorable Bodhidharma?”