It is raining. Trees are wet and roofs slippery. Animals are crouching in their holes. The world is behind a window. It is warm inside. There are people who speak different languages. I would like to know what they think or feel behind their languages. It is a cooking time. I would like to know how many people are in a real fact here. Why are they here? Because I see and hear them. They are breathing.
I have always been alone and I will always be. Before death or after it. Vast endless space where everything is so distant it cannot be seen. There are such morbid people who think and write about death constantly because they find it more attractive than life, than the sun. Or it may be they find the sun in death. They think of afterlife as the object of their desire.
I have surrounded myself with objects of distraction. I am crawling with my eyes over the surface of the floor to hit some sugar. Question marks relax and stretch in my hair. She has an excellent body but I have learnt to hide my true emotions. I have learnt to hide everything connected with me. I hate to appear ridiculous. I am waiting for people to dig me up. She likes to be in a male society. I have surrounded myself with comedies, good news, simple words, tea and the smell of prepared food and believe that the dark world will never reach me. I have obliterated every memory of the outside.
I have but almost. It is getting to me through the net. The live commentary of a friendly match between England and the Czech Republic. Hour after hour after hour is washed away by the surge of picturized information. I make rounds of a few chosen pages, namely, MySpace, Yahoo, Skype and any kind of Job Search to fill up any threatening empty space between inraids into the unknown. I am not sure I have learnt anything, which actually is not my goal. People become too obsessed with reflecting on time. When I say people, I mean me. Reflections, analysis, verbalization and intellectualization of a perception are the best way to miss the ball. I am on the verge of an enormous fallacy. I must watch me.
When all needs are satisfied, there comes the right time for despair for emptiness creeps in immediately after satisfaction. I sound wise. I sound like I have something to pass on. I become enchanted by my own words. I am standing like a beautiful woman under the shower of my words. I admire the logical structure of the stream. They give me back my lost freshness and innocence. They jump on my skin and tease certain sensitive waggons. And that is the failure exactly. I believe it is happening but it isn't. Nothing of what I write about is happening except the writing itself. But then, of course, I do not know what writing is, except that it is one of the ways from certainty to an utter loss or mistrust. I do need something female to comfort me.
I last brushed my teeth 1200 km away from here. I wonder how many light years or days that would be. Light minutes. Or rather seconds. The duration of an orgasm. Meditation is a slow orgasm spread over hours or days or weeks. It is when time stops. One day they will call me and hire me as a carer. They will put an end to my movement, they will snatch away my momentum. They will display my dry skin in a better case. The only use of words is that of a hypodermic syringe with unknown solution.
I believe money falls like snow on a wind-swept country. To be fully immersed in the present moment requires oblivion of the past, which can only reappear as a re-presented subject matter, and ignorance towards future, of which you must not have the foggiest notion. It can happen very easily under these circumstances that you will sincerely not know what to do next because every such “next” will have lost its anchor. It is the movement of a sightless person groping for his/her way on a busy street. Nothing will be more comforting than taking a risk. The future will not appear as something solid and inert in the distance ahead, as something, which has to be reached and looked on dumbly or touched without sense. The future and the past will only exist as an always newly emerging presence. It is a continuous process of being born, incessant dying.
When I start to rejoice over an explanation or a simple formulation I forget that it is already gone. Only the celebration remains. Words lose their validity at the moment of their utterance. It is an inevitable pre-condition for the evolution of any process. God only knows why this process is so essential but I know it must have something in common with the beginnning and the end of the universe and the theory of the Black Bang. This takes place when the last black hole swallows itself, when everything dissapears for an immeasurably short moment (which is eternity itself in fact) in order to explode into a new dissemination of existence.
There are things I do not seem to need now, which I have left behind and of which I have lost the sense of perception. Things carresed and cared about in old books. I know the way to them if the need to revive and regain the skill they teach ever comes. Necessary steps, necessarily passed. Do the stockpiles of previous altitudes carry me on, lift me up or push me down? Is the feeling of my disconnection from them a lie? Am I really moving or am I carrying one place with me everywhere? What place would it be? Where is my home? Where is your home? Scattered across the ocean? How does one feel at home?
The reason for talking may lie in the fact it is one of the most effective ways to cover emptiness. The illusion of fullness, which comes with words, will last for a while. The sleep is an armoured rider and sleepiness a luxurious house with hunting trophies. The longer I stay there the more of a deer I become. The more it rains, the more it smoulders. It is time for a small refreshment.
I am not looking for a job but for an income. I am not looking but writing. It is the old scenario. Everything turns out as a piece of writing. It has to, it is a law. I can view it from this or that side. I can celebrate. I am not even looking for an income. I am looking out of a window. It is silent outside. It can stay like this forever but I know it will not. I could stay forever on this sofa. The law of payment will pick me up one day and deliver me to the streets of London. It is a good thing streets are for free. It does not matter what happens as long as I am left on this sofa. Let us see if I can write a novel in ten days and nights. A book about my small world seen from the softness of upholstery.
The starting point is all words are futile. Futility is the best starting point, it is a liberation at the beginnning.
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