VREME.
Nema ga.
Ne postoji.
Ili postoji?
Niko ne zna, što je najgore.
U filmu "Wittgenstein", napravljena je paralela njegovog viđenja smisla jezika sa vremenom.
E sad, ne mora se shvatati cela wittgenštajnova filozofija, ne bi li se razumelo ovo što pokušavam da kažem.
Vreme jednostavno ne teče. Vreme je konstantno zamrznuto, smenjivajući se, razmenjivajući sve ono što može razmeniti u svakom trenutku.
Ali naravno, birajući samo jedan vid razmene. Onaj koji nam dozvoljava da nas sečanja sačinjavaju, tj onaj subjektivni osećaj ličnosti, onaj osećaj prkosa Vremenu.
Meni je ovo od posebnog interesovanja, zato što sam ja celog detinjstva odbijao činjenicu Vremena, odbijao sam da verujem u vreme.
To me je odvelo u neke loše pristupe, prevelikog fokusiranja na sadašnjicu, na trenutno.
Doduše, još uvek ispoljavam karakteristike tvrdoglavosti i inercije koja potiče iz ovog osećaja.
Moram reći osećaj, zato što jeste osećaj. Nije kognicija.
Kognicija u svakom čoveku kaska za osećajima.
Možda u formi mozga wittgenštajna i mog postoji neka određena sličnost, iako ja nisam kompetentan da se stavljam uz njegovo ime, ali u meni se "vremenom" iznedrila ta osobina da karakteristike mapiram kao određene fiziološke promene tela. Jer, suštinski, ne postoji čovek. Postoji samo iluzija tela o Čoveku. Kolektivna iluzija ljudski telesa. To znači i naziv mog mejla: "mi smo svi mrtvi".
Razlog zbog kojeg niko ne zna da smo mrtvi jeu mikroreligije. Mikroreligije je naziv za repetativne stvari koje pružaju smesu kojom lepimo važne stvari u našim životima.
da li čovek zaista vlada znanjem?
može li znanje da čini čoveka?
gde je taj ogoljen čovek bez ičeg pripisanog, okićenog na njemu?
gde je čovek kojem džepovi ne služe da skupljaju?
postoji li Čovek van imena?
šta leži ispod nespoznajnosti sveta?
Da li zaista ima nečeg višeg od jezika u nama samima?
Postoji li zaista smisao ispod svih reči?
Da li je namera smisao, ili je namera značenje faktora koje nas zapravo koriste?
Shvatio sam da sam ja najneambicioznija osoba koju sam ikad sreo. tvrdoglava, inatna, iskrena i sujetna osoba.
Nikad nisam radio nešto što ne zahteva neko od mene. A uvek sam držao sebe dovoljno distanciranog od drugih da ne bih bio zavistan od drugih, tj da budem ono što mi oni govore. I to rezlutira u tome što imam ljude oko mene, koji brinu o meni, i koji mi govore o tome kako ja imam potencijala, i kako traćim sebe.
Danas mrzim ljude koji mrze. I ostale zajedno sa mnom.
Vaš život je izrečen ograničenim fondom reči, u kojem se pojmovi prepliću i sudaraju.
Vaš život je ponavljanje, sa primesama drugačijeg, okretanje točka raznim brzinama.
Koliko ste puta izgovorili reči koje ste danas rekli?
Play me a fool, for I am him, That cries to yield, yet fears to feel… Jest of sadness, unrips the mask And mouths tell tale, of silence in him.
Yes! You may call me blind, Yet, what I do see, lives only in light And there within, my heart beats. Bark these years, and come to me!
And a fool, once lain dead, sought a crusade As heyday, to fight wind, and mills grey.
“Oh the lady of light, which on my, makes salvage, A spear in heart, bevels this page. Scribes my tablet with age Of old Sun that came down, Like the shadow’s slope, Darken my beverage.
And yet, empty is this cup, On whose bottom thou standst Prophesied from forgotten past.”
Many ways lain, yet none so sane And alone He walks, even with cane. His spear by his side, never resides, Yet shakes with tatters on his chest.
As now, a middle-aged man Came to pond to wash his hands; Recalls his faults upon the waves; And in darkness of moonlight he tells:
“What daemon pursues me, Waylays my pace, Whereon comes he, He who beats in me? Dared I thought him dead, And soon I would renounce him, Yet with pitter-patter she comes, Cloaked with dark and red mask. And as anticipation in the air fades to gray, Cos’ I dare not trust an empty heart, Which suddenly beats like train, Somehow I do remember this song…”
The light came up, as Sun on stage, But still the poplars pined away, With wind-bells, the roses withered; They sought pristine, late Sun’s gleam. Long the darkness reign’d thither Until the wanderer got the spear.
“Hear me Gods, on my way move hither, What is this curse my soul riddles, Upon where the old ravens wear the masque of heavens? Out of bleakest night comes, what once came to be…. An entity of despise, it hates all my days of life, Those long hours I wore lonely…
I prayed! Reminiscence my words lost to gray! I prayed, oh Merciful, not to see again, The destroyer of high towers…
Give me a tool, to pluck my sorrows, So I could fight with my own blight, Upon that hill, where my curse follows me still, Upon that daemon, where clocks turn ill, Upon my muscle-beat, which bears no will…
I tried! I tried! I tried! I tried to make my eyes white, By gazing into abyss, for emptiness my heart to eat. I tried to rip my bones from out of my carcass, I tried to feast upon my own beliefs! All hope I shackled and tangled I cast, I pulled out her silence with my own tongue, And blinded sat in corner of passage. Waiting for the lady of cold touch. My nails in flesh did inscribed, how I yearned for a kiss, And still tattered and curled into nothing, My mouths dried, waiting for an exit. And it seemed…
And it seemed, the silence beneath the abyss; The clouds upon it; darkness that befell me; That none of it would ever break the screen.”
Yet the Sun came, mostly like a gentle breeze, The warmth he felt, fell deep in, The shadows of past, past him blithely As the memory unwinds: the journey. Bold fool, betook his pen and deprived it’s sane, And sought a fight, to fight in vain; He sought a way, to turn the wheel, A spell, to turn the word of evil, That echoes Halls of Time still… And somewhere deep within, He forgot his prime motif.
The nay-say took another shape, It cloaked itself with people in sand-glass. How does the snake bears thousand faces, That which, but one, poisons our hearts, and carries her doom to our old age?
When does the pain stops? Not until the stone loses it’s weight. But there his soul slight, and eyes bright Gazed upon sunrise, of his own life. Deep into sunlight, something beyond torches light. And with irresistible smile, shapeless words, shape the world from his heart:
„The sun came with merit, spread it’s beams, It beheld mire within, and blossomed it. For a rose roses, and all the thorns I caught, Stemmed my love from being told.
Upon that sky, where your eyes I hold, Spreads the strangefull beam, of which I do not know, Yet, the dead inside my heart still, act like they know;
It is the carving, -molding man, that cannot be said; It is what melts the way, when sweet lips strike the air.
Oh but thine loving eyes must never perish, Lest this world shall be turned to grey; Lest the bottomless absence strike out cherished, Lest world with roses wither away.
I do hold my love for thee, oh dear mountain, which in stream melts the snow, glimmering, sparkling; and even though in your pond, below swans, I do catch a ghastly ghost with face I loe, Seems so aerie, when reverberation on water carried, cos’ my hand yearned to touch it, yet felt only frost. How did I ’came this? Wherefore broken joss?
I was a soldier; swaying sword, seems so heavy, Playing but what I was mold for, Yet, only slightly knocking at the doors, never trusting anybody would open up. But therein, came she, anointing. And in my own glee, she actually did nothing! These wretched strings played symphony of all, This bottomless need, encarved life whole. She didn’t even exist’. There she strayed, a puppet sole, with a faceless grin, a girl with mole. -she utter’d something. But to these ill’d ears, that did not hear, Eyes have spanned a planar gift.
Celestial descend, or a girl ascend, Lonely sword-boy, didn’t cared, All He ever knew, is what He felt somehow, ’Cos in her eyes, he caught reflection of his, In her acts, he felt like he did it; And scared was he - the most lonely, Looking on this reflection of his sky in his abyss.
And then no utterance, no movement, The ground beneath his feet showed a strange mark, In his hands, athame drew a blooded star. Hark! Four winds around the Moon, Sun, Earth, and Stars Gathered upon him, drawing down the moon. Dampened his senses, yet the hand controlled by essence, He didn't felt the presence, nor saw the birth Just threwn upon porch, whereof path starts. Deja vu upon a journeyman’s eyes, This sword-boy walks a circle long, Just to be entrapped by different shapes of same song.
Since then, He pledged Moon to the sky His grasp to crave for, but on sky to slide... That alone is enough to keep him waken on many a lonely night.
Hasn’t no one told him yet, blunt edges, and the rust upon his head? Sorrow is the word he dares not say, As he stands in front of mirror, gazes upon moss and haze that have curled upon his crest, yet he sees none but the shiniest of gold and plate.
And on his crest, he prays to be setted down, yet cannot reside steadily by the river, cos in his chest lives a soul of his sword, which with zest plies the fiber of his gown.
Such, in curse of love, love procreates herself, Holding man as shield, with love man shields himself, Even through eyes her poison courses, Deluding reason, calling upon „old forces“ Making man’s tongue her knave, Fragile to one, as this stave.
I never did saw the universe, in it’s spirally shape, I never did saw it move, and savour inane; forever coiling upon a point, I don’t believe he favours my ken when I, from my past, sense him here, there, It matters not, because it’s form splatters and gathers upon your smile, to endow my pain.
I walked a circle long, waylaid sun to reach the hands that turned my path, that turned the globe. but the tired hands still grasp the mark, that failure to rise above has left encarved upon my heart.
It is my fate, to bear it, fate I make from what my fate is, It is everything I know, and thus I am trapped by it, And all things I will know, are poured through it, Upon it’s edges are carved my words, Greenish, poisoned, as the mouths they come from, I cried upon sky,beseeched a tool from gods, yet the sorrow gave purpose it’s rise, and thus the sword in my hand writes...
With a many strangeful glow, many destinies fall upon it’s point, where pierced they bleed on paper, each different, but in one colour, one tone, they all fall together poisoned by his song.
I’ve cried for help to my friends, The only ones I didn’t cut with my words, Tisn’t they held no help, yet, Their hands were too gentle for such a sharp sword.
For a time, it came all to clear: All these empty words of wisdom His ears yearned to hear, Could not co-exist with his own, As this role of jest riddles jest itself As long as all he hopes for is this craving for hope, which holds him strong.
Lay all the swords on ground! Plant them as the cross with whom you’ll measure the sun, Shades of the lady – all earth breathes for Are sieved, deprived of humane faults, And molded unto the handle of my sword, Which now I lay on ground, because the fluency of it’s spirit, Is what makes this, my ordeal.
It isn’t the sky, it is the sea Whereof rain comes from, and returns bluntly Shaped in new forms, but with one same old point, It strikes the surface so hardly The surface of it’s own. Likewise, my love, more further it travels Strongest when farthest – - the yearning, the craving, the hope, It surley kills me, when returns Driven by inertia much to strong to hold off.
Lay all the swords to the ground! I now must leave, this cherished garden, forsake the seeds I planted, unto this ground I hallowed. All these busts, golden rusted leaves, Paths winding adorned with Sun setting, Yew forest, with whom I was nourished, They all to early came down, Into the spirally abyss.
He thought that Love made, Guided his hands, led him to war To a battlefields of all lost, And none reclaimed hope. Realizing the winds stripping him, And still finding the force that surges And drives his feet, He felt the Love behind him, Pushing him, blindly pushing him, To the ledge of hope (all there is).
He soon came to hate his hands, And all that glassy sculptures In which he saw his reflection, He tore down, finding self all to disgusting Because he saw himself behind him, A mutant of shapeless form, Without hands, eyes, mouths or nose, All that he ever was, a cancer on word: Love.
And there He was, right there, shedding his skin, Constantly searching for something That He wasn’t. Craving for what he must not hold.
Did He found himself writing to someone Who cannot reply? A letter to his Joss?
I’ve treaded steps of stone, even with my bare hands, greeted the man on mountain, drank from his cup; inspite the sand in glass, of light are weary my eyes, And richness of this world do not pass me, Instead they come to me, with their own true light.
Thus, in few days of my life, I’ve heard of the moon’s song Talked with my father – the sun, swam with rainbow Upon the sky, breathed air, became it’s son, And felt the unbareable lightness of existance of your smile. And yet came no wiser on the ground, no wiser than the man who hits the rock, no wiser at all.
Thus, you must know what I’ve found, all along: It is your fear, you’ve told me about That longest night, when I spoke to my God.
I’ve traversed all realms, And even the one in which you yourself has hid From your fear.
I saw, and in my hands held what made you, My Love, my life,my God. You are nothing, desiring a form. And nothing I am now abdicating.
Danas sam izmerio pritisak posle hiljadu godina. Sve ide normalno dok ne pochne po kurcu. U jednom trenutku, srce krene blesavo da mi udara, kao da sam uplashen merenja krvnog jebenog pritiska. Moracu da se vishe teram da merim pritisak, da bih razbio tu anksioznost, taj neopravdani strah, koji je verovato povezan zbog tog sto mi je otac umro zbog istog sranja. On je imao 35 godina vishe od mene. A ja imam 27 i imam 158/80, koje je hiljadu posto netachno izmeren pritisak.
Depresija se sakuplja oko mene, okruzuje me... Neostvaren sam. Ne zelim da umrem, ali ne bi bila velika nepravda prema meni i da crknem, jer i ovako i onako ne doprinosim nikome, i postojim u ovom drushtvu samo kao neka bedna gnjida, vashka.
U sve vecoj sumnji sam svojih sposobnosti. Razmishljao sam danas dok sam se vracao kuci od inspekcije, o tome kako napredak, tehnoloshki, uvelichava razliku izmedju osobenog poimanja osecanja i principa. Dok svi mi zivimo uglavnom sastavljeni chistim logichkim, matematichki konciznim pristupima, vaganjem prema vecem/manjem, benefitnijem/neprofitibilnijem...svi smo protkani tom iluzijom koja nas chini zivim bicima, tim osecanjima koja brkaju logiku, meshaju drvece sa oblacima, izmishljaju stvari koje nisu tu. Kao ja npr moj pritisak. Ljudi manufakturishu aparate koje ce im ostavljati vishe prostora za emotivne manifestacije, otud kompjuteri i ljudi koji kao ja sada, pokushavaju da emotivno utaknu u ono sto emotivno ne moze sadrzati.
GOnjen sam osecajem da moram da se dokazujem u nechemu, da moram da pokazem sebi da postojim, ali najgori problem u tome je sto to ne umem u adekvatnom okruzenju da radim. Trebao bih sebe dokazivati u svom drushtvu, u ljudima koji su oko mene. Ali ja to ne zelim. Iz ochitih razloga i bezim od drushtva.
praznog pogleda na svet, skoro ocishcen samog sebe, Pred ogledalom sto ga zovu svet, posmatram naborano lice. Siroke pore, i duboke brazde, sve mu na licu prljavo bese. Usta puna zemlje, otvorena su, ali pak on cutase. I dok je svaka tacka na licu njegovom govorila, oko njega se samo plava boja slila. Apsolutno bez potrebe da sobom truje vode, pustao je gorke suze da se kroz grlo slate. Nije sebi dopustao da ga suze ociste. Posmatrah tog cudnog coveka, kako poluodeven sedi, zapitah se, svestan li je svog robusnog tela, kuda li se sva ta snaga u njemu sakrila, Kao da je rodjena iz leptira. Njegove ruke, goleme i cvornate, kao kakva grana, behu oziljci od dolazecih rana, prsti mu pak behu meki, tanki i zeleni, skoro kao kakva trava. Sedeo je nemo, ispred sveta, natrpanih usta zemlje. Zagledah se jako u mrak koji mu je prekrivao lice. Oci mu behu duboko, duboko ubacene, sitne i skoro zatvorene dok je umor ocrtavao podocnjake, od guste sume tuge, u ocima mu ne videh ni trunku duse, A da mu je sva toplota presuhla, svedocise i 2 plave usne, i ostar mrtvachki smrad, i blato krvave zemlje. Obrazi behu beli i tvrdi, i po koja vena na njima se ucrtavase duboko, kao kakav topli trag u snegu... Mrtav li je? Polu odraz ili odraz, u ogledalu, covek ili ceo svet u ogledalu? Svejedno, odavno se razboleo, mozda kao kakav umetnik u naletu, gde ga sopstvene ideje jedu, mozda kao skitnica od svakog bolesti pozajmljujuci malo, zaista, efektu je svejedno. Zelim da ga dodirnem, da mi makar prsti upadnu na njegove pore na celu, palcima mu stisnem oci, da makar iscedim po koju suzu, ali sam se plasio. Sijao je svetlom svih kandlebra, ali je i rezao iz utrobe, kao da ga mori vecna glad, sa ocnjacima zarivenim u grumen zemlje. Sedeo je nemo, ukoceno posedan, ispred mene ravno. Oh, puste li zelje da je on samo staklo, ovo ispred zamagljeno, i da uzmem krpu i jednim pokretom ruke, napravim mu suze, sto bi ga progutale. Ali nije. Od krvi i mesa je, i ta cudovisna spodoba je sedela ispred mene. I ako bi zeleo da odem, rezala bi mucno, iz utrobe. Nije mi dozvoljavala da prekinem ovo mucno cekanje, kao da imam obavezu da iz groteske izvucem naravoucenije. Ali zaista, grozomorna patetika je obuzdavala moju volju da pobegnem. Delimicno od straha, delimicno od intrige. Mogu li se odnositi? Da li da ga prihvatim, ili da ga se grozim? Da pronadjem svoje shake u njegovim? Taj ukoceni pogled u ocima svojim? U ustima ukus opori? I dok se svest , kao leptir, sudara sa onim od cega da pobegne pokushava, veo mira oko njega je ugusilo vreme, prolazile su godine. Niti jedan delic zemlje mu iz usta ispao nije. Sve ove moje godine, slusajuci i gledajuci mene. Kroz trbuh - progovorio je: "nista se promenilo nije".
Dodjete do hladne betonske ploche, prebacite nogu napred, i zagazite u meko i gnjecavo blato. Korachate. Miris vode vas budi naglo. Saginjete se, dok vetrovi udaraju sveze oprano lice. Pruzate ruku, i dodirujete hladnu, zamucenu vodu. Ustanete i mislite o svoj prljavshtini, o hladnoci i dubini, o negostoprimstvu reke, o teshkim talasima kako se bezmilo udaraju Okrenete se ka zgradama, prepune ljudi, i okicenim sharenim svetlima. Buka kola i zaglusheni ljudski smeh se polako pojachava. Miris vode polako ischezava. Petarda pored vas se dimi, i puca. Predosecate da ce se pravo lice reke opet iznova promeniti, i ostati jedino istinit u vashim prstima. I vratite se nazad, misleci: udavio sam se.
Prekratak je zimski dan, da bih snegu sto se topi prichao o njegovoj jedinstvenosti u samom paternu i shari Ali dan je dovoljno dugachak da se dolazeca noc predoseti, Da se zapamte oblici kojima sneg hrani ochi. Nece li svi ti andjeli, vechno nasmejani ljudi, imena i otisci kada Sunce otvori ochi - zaplakati? Probudjeni iz sna zimom, oni za koje vreme ne postoji, posluzice pod svetlim nebom kao materijal za vajanje vechnosti, i posle odredjenog vremena, snu svome se vratiti. Sneg ce ponovo zaspati, i ta ceznja za spashenjem ce utihnuti. Imam li dovoljno srca, da shvatim, da ovaj svet je samo san, gde sada probudjen - tamo cu biti u snu nadjen, i zivim samo u prelazima, dok sanjam? Umem li da svim ovim imenima zaborav dam, i zasto josh uvek pokushavam da uhvatim ovaj prekratki zimski dan?
Ali znam:
Zima ima lice, koje joj ja nikad nisam dao; Sa posmetenim snegom, samo izvire. Decembarske duge šetnje, i zraci iz magle Moje oči preplaviše, sa nimalo moje volje.
Ko pokreće te točkove Što ogoljenom drveću daju lišće zelene boje? Ko iz vazduha izvlači uzdahe, I pretvara ih u kapljice magle, Što na kori srca prave inje?
Davno su njene kose prestale da budu oličje moje želje, Njene oči isprazniše svoje zadnje rezeorvare patnje na mene.
I davno su me pathosom udavile, Ono unutar, ugasilo je sebe prevelikom čežnjom Za onim što je polazilo iz samog mene. Odjekuje strepnja, dok kucam šuplje na vrata srca.
