“Dear Diary, what a day it’s been.” I wish I could say that. I wish this was a thought of a day. I wish this was how I felt. But it feels so much longer. It is so much longer.

Let me tell you this story told “in the eyes of a child”. His name, “(the) Actor”, was very common for his time. Rushing around senselessly, music was the most beautiful pagan belief that his father had inspired in him. He developed faith in it and lived his every moment under the spell of music. Even when there was none to be heard, his guts would repeat the chords and tunes he had had carved deep within. Until he discovered sex, music was the only religion he pursued. His Sunday mass was the frequent consumption of dusty old LP’s that his father and company had stored for unusual generations such as himself. His sin was his passion for life. One, among the many albums, painted his childhood with the special note it warranted. He never forgot it although most of his age group, or peers even a decade older never heard of its existence. And the fact that the album was released in 1974 played an insignificant role.

When Actor led his life into teenage territory, it was already too late to change. The music had penetrated deep into his cells, enhancing his DNA by gifting him the selfless concept of a “melancholy man”. He had already had the tendency to drift away dreaming into, but now he became fully qualified. Since then he felt he had become real. Since that moment on, he had always feared change, although he had never stopped changing; he was only depriving himself of the hard earned credit only because he was aware of his courage to decide the path and endure the bittersweet road only afterwards. He wasn’t courageous all the time. There were a few occurrences that occasionally poked his conscience.

He was beaten up twice. Both times outnumbered. The first time 1 to 10 (or more). The second time 1 to 3. Both times he had not hit back. Both times he was crippled with fear; One time he stole something that did not belong to him. Something he never wanted in the first place; Actor didn’t see his cancer-riddled grandmother before she died. He wanted to preserve his memory of her the way she was by safely and cowardly staying in front of the door. Perhaps the cancer did not decay her body that much. Perhaps he simply avoided it to avoid that disturbing sensation that panic and fear might issue as an effect. He loved her so much and if she didn’t die due to cancer, she would probably have been struck by a heart attack due to Actor’s puberty troubles; He was not strong enough when his father hit him, that one, insignificant time.

The reality of life is that he sometimes acted out of spite, sometimes out of pride, sometimes out of joy, and when he was at his worst, he really did act [read: pretend] instead of living. He grew older and on occasions, he still found it fearful being truthful to himself. Either because he was still afraid of the consequences or because that damned concept of hope consumed his courage. He felt like painting soc-realism while he was craving art. He wished he killed the censor, but he had no idea who was right, he or his projected, and even conditioned desires. Sometimes, still listening to the same LP’s, he wished he could cry like he used to when it was all too much. But something prevented him. Actor wished he could even fake it for the sake of feeling some determination in his eyes. Anything would be better that running away only to manage once again to end up losing against time and hurting in the process.

“What kind of godforsaken inspiration is this? If only I had the audacity to admit how afraid I have become. I despised hope and now hope is all I cling on to.” Actor was too hasty to admit that it took long for the real surge of inspiration to surface. It took a misunderstanding to replace inspiration with a black box of self-isolation. Or anger to replace the joy of what life was meant to be. That much he had admitted. If he could only get lost in his own thoughts like he used to have the aptitude to. But there was something in him, something unusually considerate that made the old dusty LP’s melt in shame because he was controlling his own thoughts in spite of the art of life waiting for him to be unleashed. Could it be there was nothing left in that can of worms any longer? Had he already forfeited? Someone said that one had to be miserable and sad in order to write. The worst combination is when misery combines with the inability to write. Even his own fingers escaped his own pensive illustrations.

Actor. What a stupid name to portray life. What a stupid name anyways. As odd as his perceived misconception has portrayed him, he had a subtle obsession with the novel “The old man and the sea” before he had even read its first sentence. He had always believed that this novel would change his life, as some sort of revered revelation. He read it. There was no revelation. There was nothing in fact. Not even a reflection. But maybe he has looking at it from the wrong perspective. Maybe it was all about the fish rather than the old man. Perhaps the fish caught on to fight the injustice, to live its life in dignity, to strive to be better than the rest, to seek justice it deserved. Only to end up being caught in its own demise. At the right time. At the right place. For the right cause. But alone.

The 1974 LP album had already reached its end. “This is Moody Blues” it was. And there were no “new horizons” like they were that January many years ago in that lonely dormitory. Only his skeleton. Just like the fish and the sea.

running away. moments of derision. persecuted and paralyzed. I thought. engulfed in a fever of spite. reality fades. martyr to caution. no safety numbers. the right one. the door. wipe the slate clean. please go fuck myself. you just can’t win. stolen moments. merging with the shadows. burning desire. dreaming of a new day. cast aside. the doorway. beyond the reach. the moment is at hand. obscured by clouds. days slipped by. hurt. helpless. the things surround me. dying to believe. lost in thought. in time. seeds of change. irresistible. through our silence. headed straight. the shining sun. the wall came down. onto the ground. freedom HAD arrived. ship of fools. promises lit up. not even pride. of loyalty. of history. life devalues. the sound of drums. slipped away. bitter. great day for freedom. (leaving) just a memory. a snapshot. sarcasm. no arms around me. writing. the wall. just bricks. just a brick. home again. beside the fire. far away. across the field. tolling of the bell. to their knees. magic spells. spoken. breathe. breathe again. hello. is there anybody out there? show me where it hurts. receding. your lips. fever. understand. this is not how I am. little pinprick. little sick. going through the show. corner of my eye. child. grown. dream. gone. comfortably numb. through the shredder. don’t treat me this way. the frightened ones. the promise. long gone. blue sky. goodbye. firing line. nightmares. true. little boy apart. will she break. my heart. all your girlfriends. anyone dirty. where you’ve been. healthy. clean. did it need to be so high? mother. the band is fantastic. what I think. name of the game. sell out. helluva start. it could be made into a monster. you’re never gonna die. (don’t) have a cigar. getting old. fading smiles. bury the light. on your own. would you touch me. a fantasy. waiting for the worms. and the worms ate into his brain. breaking bottles. sound of glass. no hope at all. together we stand. divided we fall. hey you.

beyond the horizon. without boundary. by the cut. the final cut. ragged band. took our dreams away. life consumed by small decay. sleepwalking back again. dreamed of world. desire and ambition. dizzy heights. hunger still unsatisfied. weary eyes. the water flowing. high hopes? gone. might like to. warm thrill of confusion. something eluding. sunshine. what you expected to see. blow your way through this disguise. in the flesh. just like the animals. silence surrounding me. think straight. my words won’t come out right. feel like I’m drowning. where do we go from here. what are you thinking. what are you feeling. keep talking. of no turning back. sitting alone. senses reeled. irresistible grasp. ice is forming. I thought I thought of everything. no navigator. guide my way home. tongue-tied and twisted. state of bliss. determined to try. learning to fly. wanna take a bath? are you feeling ok? like the skin of a dying man. pretend. all right. I. older. you. colder. funeral drum. very much fun. my favourite axe. be careful with that axe. rock and roll refugee. hand in hand. so frightened. bad days. desert land. silent freeway. one of my turns. pig man. charade you are. nearly a laugh. really a cry. cold feet. pigs. three different ones. screaming from all sides. all this temptation. the rising tide. she. take it back. amuse playing games. meat packing. connection they feel. my blood. my tears. not the one you need. anything you want. sell your soul for complete control. what do you want from me? heroes for ghosts. cold comfort for change. lead role in a cage. year after year. the same old fears. wish you were here. keep the loonies on the path. in my hall. in my head. folded faces to the floor. the dam breaks open many years too soon. you re-arrange me till I’m sane. throw away the key. someone’s in my head but it’s not me. no one seems to hear. dark side. I think it’s marvelous. brain damage. stayed out of sight. too long on the inside out. not beating much. vow of silence. extinguished by light. empty smile. starting to choke. clouds that covered me. the words right from my mouth. wearing the inside out. you shone like the sun. childhood and stardom. crossfire. steel breeze. threatened by shadows. random precision. faraway laughter. you reached for the secret. you seer of visions. come on. you piper. you prisoner. and shine! ticking away. make up moments of a dull day. waste the hours. waiting for someone or something to show you the way. you missed the starting gun. run to catch up with the sun. to come up behind you again. older. one day closer to death. find the time. the time is gone. when the tigers broke free. and then: nothing.

    Like all stories, this one ought to start with “once upon a time”. I will start mine that same way not because the story of today was not a fairy tale. I will start mine with those same words that every child falls asleep to not because the story I have to tell was in fact a fairy tale. I will start it precisely that way because of the question it keeps ringing in my head, loud and unanswered, a question provoked by the sentiment that the phrase builds up in me like an endless view. Every time that the Brothers Grim, Hans Christian Andersen, Aesop, and the like, have started their imagined story in such fashion, did they see their protagonists, both good and better, sheep and wolves, princes and beggars, to be real as they have led many to believe or did they see them as imaginary as many others would dream to meet?

    Once upon a time, there was a love story between a boy and a girl. It started when the boy was only 8 years old. He was brought up in a family where abundance was frowned upon, yet nothing was scarce. Whereas only material abundance was frowned upon, the sense of belonging, the joy of freedom, the wing of protection, the strictness of the rational, and selfless emotions were the pillars of his home. His parents made sure these ideologies got inflicted deep inside that little boy’s mind making them his guiding principles in life.

    Having all that as foundation, the boy developed, if not inherited, a personality he claimed was his own. He was shy and opted out of socializing more than he wanted in. He was closed like a can, yet he was always surrounded by many friends. He longed to share, but he didn’t know how. He was unafraid to experience, but was limited, crippled with anxiety of betraying his molded dogmas. The only peace he found was the music he was lost in, music that his own kind would not understand. If there was one word to define him, it would be: a dreamer. Dreamer, one who is afraid of adventure. Insecure, because the others were more normal than he was. Doubtful with others, more so with himself, because insecurity was doubt’s most solid base. Everything about him was contradictory. He felt no one tried to understand him. He had no intention of explaining. In fact, he found it difficult to understand himself as well. The platonic idea of love was something that perhaps gave fuel to the bubble he would not go out for no one, and let no one in but himself. In fact, he was always in love. Always in love, although he never knew how. The biggest “loves” he had were the ones that got true always and only in his dreams. Or he would find “love” in the wrong girl. Or in one much more age-inappropriate for him – kids are always fascinated by older women. They almost view them like a fail-safe until they stop dreaming and start building the bricks of their own reality. At night, that little boy would dream for hours with his eyes wide open, creating the Shangri-La for him and the girl of his dreams. He had a dream, but he always thought that realization of one’s dream is reserved for other people. In times when he had a crush on a cute girl right before his teens had erupted, he felt closer to the river down the Stone Bridge then to the girl walking next to him. He stopped, staring somewhere in the river’s brown figures while she was trying to reach out to him. No one knew what he was looking at. He didn’t either. Unaware of his mental absence, he realized that de-realization only years after. He was a very strange little boy indeed.

    As he was growing up, he had many girls. Some of them he remembered for their kiss. A few of them he remembered for their heart. Every time any of them would be his, he had already broken up with them without their consent, even without their awareness. To them, their first kiss meant a storybook love. To him, their first kiss meant the bittersweet beginning of a guaranteed end. Why? Was he too good for them? Maybe for a handful. For a whole lot of them, he might not have been even close. Yet, they all felt for him the same way he had expressed his honesty in front of them. He thought he was special. He liked to think that any of those girl’s exes were called “my ex” or “an ex” but that he would be known by his name only after the imminent end. He left them all standing in the rain without an explanation, caring not even for their slightest possible tear. As long as he didn’t see that. So he would depart long before that would happen, and without a trace. He had not been taught to play with other people’s feelings, and he felt dire that he had been playing one of its biggest symphonies. He knew exactly why he did all that. He discovered it in the years to follow.

    Many summers went by, the boy’s worn out, action-less dream became a panicked schema of a dead end street. He could not find a way. He was not even looking for one. The subtlety of his childhood’s guiding principles felt ever more distant. His subconscious longed for love, yet he strived to become what he was never made to be. The worse it felt, the harder he tried. He was afraid to give in, yet he was giving away everything he had. Then he met freedom. She came in the form of the most pleasant and unexpected encounter that he could imagine it not even in his carefully constructed dreams. When he fell in love with her the first time, he was 8 years old. Before, she had never had a name, face or history. She has always been the girl of his dreams. He could call her Cookis had he known about her. 19 years later, he put his imagined pieces of her puzzle together. Freedom was only 31 when he first met her. Her face was beyond any beauty he could imagine, her eyes exposing her soul at a humblest plate, her hair even more beautiful with the curls she hated. Her character was the one he thought every girl should possess. Her history was that of a spirit warrior.

    The moment he met her, she started being the reality he had always dreamt of. That little boy inside of him was happier than ever. He was still unaware but no longer reluctant to acknowledge it. She was the one. She was his first. Without even a dust of doubt. The first time he introduced her to his friends, they were all astonished by his act of bringing a girl to his barbed-wire inner circle. To his friends, and even to him inherently, he was single ever since anyone had met him. The second time he brought her home to his family, she was not a guest any longer. They made love. One time after that, while they were caught up making love, he stopped, looked into her eyes, and continued. She felt it. She felt that in that particular moment their eyes met, they were both in love. Almost a freckle of a moment after they were in bed puzzled together, he expressed her feelings for her. He said, almost inaudible: “I love you”. He was surprised as that phrase was foreign to him, restricted to movies and to his carefully hidden dreams. Her beautiful lips whispered the same words as reflection of his as she embedded her body into his. That night was the most beautiful night of his life. That night, his childhood pillars found their way back into their righteous place. No one believed him. He couldn’t grasp it either. He hoped she did.

    Before, any other girl was a well-paid theater extra to a show of life. Now, as she held on to him as tight as no one ever had, she was the reality of his dream; the rest of the world, the coincidental passengers and even any other girl were all extras. She was his first. She was the one. She might have had many flaws. In his eyes, she didn’t have any. She could have been married and divorced; she was still that innocent virgin in quest of the unknown. She could have a child already; he would love it like it was his own. She was the only one that could keep him at home. Never before had he counted the anxious moments while running to her embrace. They both saw their unborn children to remind them of their love even more, like the cherry gets reminded of its blossom when the time came. He was in an admitted and even more committed relationship, yet he never felt as free in his entire life. The wind he had always been she did not whither. She made it even stronger but gave its unknown path the course it had always longed for. He didn’t want to stay alone even though loneliness was always his source of emotion. She replaced all that with her presence. There was no catch, merely reality. He wrote her almost every night the most romantic inspirations for her that had been reserved ever since he was a child. She got the best out of him. And he gave her all. He only wanted her in return, with all the baggage that she might have incurred over the years. They had many months spent together. Every day lasted less than a moment. Every moment grew better with time. Until the very end.

    She didn’t have the key yet, but she made him overcome his biggest fears – she had practically moved in with him. She plunged right into his heart where she had always belonged. She was his missing piece; he was hers. She was waiting for him every time of those few moments he would take longer to touch her, just like she did on the day of his birthday. She had been preparing a moonlight dinner at his apartment – their lair. She wanted to surprise him even though she shared his similar disbelief of an absent surprise. He put his keys in the lock and to his surprise, the lock wouldn’t budge. The door was not locked, she was there, he mumbled to himself, as he couldn’t hide his honest smile. The apartment was not too big, but its emptiness echoed all over the place. He didn’t like surprises so much as he liked the idea of them but he knew she had the best prepared for him. He could feel that. She didn’t make a sound, as if she wanted him to uncover her and keep her under her grip forever. It didn’t take him long to find her, as she was spread all over the bar table like a shining diamond. The closer he got to her, the more real the two became. He touched her. His hands stopped trembling. He felt the most beautiful words coming out of her mouth. He never heard anything as close to reality, yet he heard no sound. There was no dark curly hair in the room, there were no beautiful eyes to stare at him like a heathen dancing towards the sky. There was no Cookis in the room. She was there in the form of the most beautiful birthday present that 8 year boy had ever received – a plastic card inscribed with gorgeous cursive words that no one ever before had attempted them, words that were more real than the earth above and the sky beneath. He picked up the card as he involuntarily whispered its words out of it. It read: “when you go home you will find nothing…the only thing you’ll find is the smell of burned out candles, traces of perfume on your pillow and memories of girl that should not be missed…” Those 3 dots lasted an eternity, even more powerful than the actual words. It was signed Cookis.
  That was the last scent of her he felt. What remained was the image of a story that little kind boy had long ago molded. He never went looking for her. He never asked questions. He only wanted to preserve the months that gave his long lost dream a reality, regardless that the past reality was irrevocably gone. The card was what remained to be the dust in the wind. The dream still remains. To be lived.

A word of blasphemy. That is what they would say, and they wouldn’t know what they were (doing) talking about. I wonder what God would say to it. But I don’t dare to ask. I am afraid to ask Him. In spite of this (un)provoked conflict, I will express it all just like all the other revered mortals claim their right to express their own way, who they claim is the one of the right path. I don’t know what the right path is. The one that the decadent priest, or the phony believer tells me is the one, is more likely the one that is the opposite of the book’s contents. And the Book is supposedly never wrong.

I am not religious. In fact, I despise the perverted wheel of religion. It is a wheel because it is turned to “save” souls who spin it to purge their “crimes” only to commit the next one, even at that same moment while they were purging themselves of the current one. Where is the pride in that? Where is the belief in Him? Where is that purity they claim there is? The purity might be improvisation of an idea, but the purity is as further away from them as the bread is from the beggar in the seldom remembered corner that no one dares to look back to. Yes, people never lose faith and they keep trying to be a better breed. But to what end? To consciously make the same mistake again after they have vowed to be His shepherds? Am I purposely going insane trying to find an excuse for the ever-believers or is that really the state of the art? Are hypocritical perceptions what we have fallen back to? Is it a bigger sin to abide to rules that we follow out of peer pressure or is it worse to admit the animals that we really are?

I am as enlightened today as much as I think I should not stop writing this saga. But I will. Because somebody else has it already written. So they say. Today is the beginning of (an) Easter. I say AN Easter because as far as my moderate memory serves me, the Lord resurrects twice. For their own “justified” reason. So they say. Whenever they decide to “tweak” the calendar. So they say. So they believe in. So they abuse the story. Happy Easter.

Crumbling away, veins that pump with fear, obey your master, life of death becoming clearer, ritual misery, you promised only lies, all I hear or see is laughter, laughing at my cries, natural habitat, just a rhyme without a reason, master of puppets! they betray, I’m your pain while you repay, pay for nothing’s fair, I’m your truth telling lies, sad but true, taking of the fallen lamb, pulsing with the earth, roaming the land, chill in the air cold as steel tonight, call of the wild, it’s later than you realized, feeling I’ve been, back to the meaning of life, in wildness is the preservation of the world, all senses clean, of wolf and man! keep you free from sin, gripping your pillow tight, something’s wrong, heavy thoughts tonight, we’re off to never never-land, it’s just the beasts under your bed in your head, born to push you around, mouth so full of lies, just keep them closed, keep praying, no the sunshine never comes!

Hide in yourself, crawl in yourself, you’ll have your time, love is a four letter word and never spoken here, I suffer this no longer, the sun will shine! the day that never comes! through constant pain disgrace, the young boy learns their rules, with time the child draws in, this whipping boy done wrong, a vow unto his own, what I’ve felt, never free never me, they dedicate their lives to running all of his, he tries to please them all, this bitter man he is, he’s battled constantly, this fight he cannot win, a tired man they see no longer cares, that old man here is me, you labelled me I label you, so I dub the Unforgiven! and the road becomes my pride, so in her I did confide, the game you stay a slave, call me what you will, where I lay my head is home, anywhere I roam, under wandering stars I’ve grown by myself but not alone, I ASK NO ONE, less the have the more I gain, adapt to the unknown, I’m free to speak my mind anywhere, wander, wander! wherever I may roam! you can think about the woman or the girl, you just wish the trip was through, here I am on the road again, you pretend it doesn’t bother you, but you just want to explode, and you always seem outnumbered, remembering what she said, and there I go, turn the page! I can’t remember anything can’t tell if this is true of dream, deep down inside I feel, I’m waking up I cannot see that there’s not much left of me, it’s much too real, I never opened myself this way, trust I seek, seek and destroy! kill ’em all! and justice for all!!!

..so many consistent, thoughtful, and somewhat inspirational concepts..but/and the memory still remains.

“The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. Murphy sat out of it, as though he were free, in a mew in West Brompton.”

For 3 weeks I have been contemplating on writing a review because I was not sure whether a review will do this book justice. And I mean that because no matter how many reviews of this book will ever be written, it will surely have something that one will miss out, something that one will discover in his own ups and downs gained through his personal and social journey. But having stared at the closed book for what seems to be a long period after I have seemingly detached from its character, I have decided to write on it. I wouldn’t call it a review, but rather an attempt to understanding what I might have misconceived and discovering what I might have not grasped. Or perhaps there is even no deeper meaning in the dark passages of the story like some might have observed it to be. But what is a better quest of enlightenment, no matter its breadth, than the one that makes us think, the one that challenges our intellect and shakes the core of our innate self-fulfilling prophecy?
As most of Beckett’s writings on the wall, Murphy reeks with elbowing one’s way of purposeless journey. His stoic elaborates of characters and passive and imaginary development tries to reach to the ultimate core of a lost way. He doesn’t even hint there might be the right way; a way at all but lack of purpose as the unconscious pursuit of all these faceless people that rush to reach the light, a light being nothing else but a spasm of the momentary. Whether it is Murphy Himself or any other of his pitiful entourage, the purpose is void in all directions. It is very often to distinguish between the characters of the story. They all look alike and they all seem to have the same meaningless self, joined into a single objective of obstruction. They are all the “nothing new”, that tale of freedom that is transferred from generation to generation to be ultimately lost in its quest within a whirlpool of thoughts and dubious aspirations. No wonder why he tries to depict Murphy as having a split personality, “split self”, trying to distinguish between the imaginary and the less meaningful. Every character from Murphy’s groupie couldn’t care less about him, yet they anticipate, if not cherish his every move. Even his lover, Celia, who is gently depicted as a whore, finds in himself an escape from her situation. She pushes him to be someone who he is not only so that she fulfills her selfish desires of getting away of her dead-end street, without acknowledging any of his reflections and needs. In the end, she fulfills her dream of Murphy finding a job to get her off the street. In the end, he finds the peace that he had never sought of looking for – he finds sanity in the sanatorium. He finds madmen that makes all seems sane. He finds nothing in reality, but even that nothing makes him find a purpose that has never existed, a purpose that never started to exist.
Beckett sets aside a whole chapter to describe Murphy’s “mind,” which “pictured itself as a large hollow sphere, hermetically closed to the universe without.” The constant battle between body and mind he struggles with is perhaps the constant battle of finding that balance that could exist in the ideal world in which everyone prays to; a world in which no one believes in if there is not for that fake comfort of someone else they don’t believe in either. For the first time in the novel, I have felt that Murphy found happiness once his ashes were spilt all over the vomit and the stale beer of the pub he had never intended to spread his light upon.
Irrespective of his message, irrespective of the (mis)interpretation of his writing, the twist of words that his writing entails brings the reader in a superfluous state which could be either a confirmation of the struggle within, or perhaps a testimony of the fear that makes us what we are not.

“The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. Murphy sat out of it, as though he were free, in a mew in West Brompton.” I could have stopped reading at this point, and I would have still felt this was the novel that had educated me the most. For how many times have we felt out of it, as if we were free, and how many more times will be try to comfort ourselves in a beautiful illusion that might not be real?

Notes from UndergroundNotes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book was written in 1864. That is almost more than 150 years ago. One of the “narrator’s” main argument is that mankind has lost its moral belief. He does not make it quite clear what moral belief he refers to, but what could be derived from it as a lesson to today’s, future generations, is that morality is something that decays over time? He makes a fantastic point about that decay and the fakeness of the “lofty and the beautiful”. Looking from today’s societies point of view, hasn’t the “pattern” of moral decay survived through all these decades? Each period bears with it a moral shift towards a global pattern of irritable values replacing the real ones. This is not meant to be a justification, but quite on the contrary, a plea of rationalizing one’s awareness. It is unfortunate that his plea of two centuries ago has prevailed only in reviews of the book itself. Rarely does one admit his or her stripping of the human core, favoring and living materialism over moral, and at the same time claiming superiority at the expense of one’s innate, natural self.
The same way the “narrator” argues that parts of the fake moral could be prescribed to injected and incompatible values from a foreign world. Does that remind us of something? How many nations have been historically diminishing their own values striving to achieve foreign, seemingly superior moral? How many of those nations have been convincing themselves that the foreign values are much more important and right than their own? But nations are not the subject of the writer’s vile. Because nations are not a superficial entity, but consisting of rational people of certain variances. Individuals are the ones who decide what type of morality they will prove a standard. And despite that decay, there is definitely a lot of good beneath the shiny, fake surface, perhaps somewhere in the underground. In each of our undergrounds.
He righteously refutes the table that will codify our patterns of behavior. Because the irrational is as important as the rational. The irrational drives us to act rational. It provides with opportunities to experience, to show that at times the irrational is in fact a rational design at that given time and the circumstances it describes it.
Have we perhaps all subconsciously found ourselves in a trap of what he refers to as “heightened consciousness”? The blunt fact that we were sometimes afraid to admit that has not cancelled it out. It is there, but pushed way down. And like he mentions in one of his preaches: there are some things that a man would not even admit to or talk about even with himself.
Another point is that “the intelligent man fails to find a satisfactory reason for the action he wants to perform, and, in fact, is impossible to find one. For the intelligent man, even the laws of nature and reason are suspect. Therefore, no intelligent man should ever be able to make up his mind to start or finish anything—no matter how simple.” He talks of it as the being the curse of inertness – the more intelligent one is, the greater the fear is to commit the dreams, the responsibilities, but at the same time, the bigger the enthusiasm is to do all that. But an intelligent man could rarely get a mental glimpse of what the end might mean. Perhaps it adds up to one of his saying that “everything is lost” once reality kicks in, no matter how much we fantasize about it. Once we make ourselves aware that we are achieving our daydreams, once we could feel the completeness of the finish line, we run away from the sensation in our little corner, no matter how essential all that was in the first place. Later, we are even afraid to repent about it. Or we are plain insecure about it, lacking belief in a world of constant change of values and shifting fronts of perception. No wonder why he goes on and on about some sort of a sacred ordeal of suffering. We find pride in our suffering because we often lack the courage to be “living life”.
Notes from Underground is a great novel, poking at the existentialist nature in its core with all its sarcasm and burden.
This review is written despite of the political connotation of the book at the “narrator’s” era.

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A Hero of Our TimeA Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book is a comment on its own. It is the most honest philosophy of emotion. Above all, I consider it a concept of love that not many people are willing to admit. Because it is too real to stop being terrified by it. One of the most powerful scenes ever written are contained in this book, successfully depicting a man’s desire for the love he was not aware he was chosen to deprive himself of. A life escaping from remorse hits back as the highest remorse there can be.

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Indifferent by Branko Jovanovski


by Branko Jovanovski

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   They say life is something, which is happening while we are occupied with other things. In fact, those other things are what life comprises of, all those checkpoints small as well as big. Irrelevant of their magnitude in time, in happiness, in pain, in laughter, in sadness, in joy, in success, in failure, in sin, in pleasure, their significance is always the value of experience. And experience is what makes us, experience is what guides our instincts to take actions, and our actions are what we are remembered for. The notoriety of some of our defining actions in life are not always mistakes but they are the best choice of direction at a given point of our own emotional, physical and mental state of mind. Often, our own fragility and insecurity transforms them as remorse because we, as humans, are unable to fully give up the opportunity cost of the other choice. Such a concept shakes our faith even more, scrutinizing our every line of thought, which manages to get hold of us at will. Sometimes daydreaming unconsciously forces us to live more than one instance of a life up to the point when we are becoming less sure of which instance is reality, and which an idyllic portrait as a response to our fears, even if we cannot identify those fears by name but by the mess it often creates in our reasoning or perhaps more accurate, lack of reasoning.
   What are we? Who are we? What do we want to achieve? What do we want to become? Which choices are the best for us? Which actions will have lesser impact on our happiness? In what way will our everyday decisions impact our life in the long term? So many questions that many of us seek to find, and many of us die trying. There is no universal measure on how happy we are or how successful we should be, especially because it is difficult to have a measure of any sort when we often miss on the definition of items to measure against. We might think we do know what many important things mean, but that is not enough as their definition is relative to our momentary state. I have read a thought provoking maxim, which said: “There is always better than here. That is always better than this. As occupied with thoughts as we are, maybe someone is enjoying our happiness and we are not even aware of it”. But that did not provoke me enough to start debating with my words on it. No.
   Sometime in 2005, my parents and I were visiting my uncle in Belgrade as we found ourselves on our way to Vienna. We came late and I was tired. My parents were tired as well, but they stayed late talking with my relatives. It was a light conversation, the one that relatives usually do when they haven’t seen each other in a long time. I didn’t remember the exact details, but it was a very pleasant chit chat. Maybe that was why I had not noticed its contents. I was too tired to continue watching the stupid TV show, but I had already let myself be embedded in the comfortable sofa. As I finally managed to gather that little bit of strength to stand up and reaffirm my sleep in the other room, my father was talking to my uncle as my uncle said as if to himself, looking at the adjacent wall in a semi nostalgic way: “sometimes I think one could have done things differently and could have chosen a different life”, he seemed to think out loud.
   I said goodnight to all of them before heading off to the room where I was going to sleep. I was not sure what I was trying to elaborate in my head, but I couldn’t stop thinking of that sentence that seemed to have been playing with parts of my conscience. My uncle has a beautiful family, grandsons, which he lived for and he seemed happy every time I had met him before. And he never faked it. And he did not fake his happiness that night either. Overall, he had a happy life full of personal pride and relative financial success. I knew that for a fact. And that was the main reason why I could not figure out what he was trying to say with that sentence that now even started to bother me. Why would he want to have chosen a different life? What was wrong with the current one? Did he want to become a war pilot? Or he wanted to have become an actor? Not even those almost eight hours of sleepless night gave me any answers to my mystery. And not even today, after five years I have found the answer. But that night made me think about my own life, as I was on my way to my graduation ceremony in Vienna. What to choose when I had not the slightest idea of who I was and what I wanted? What to choose next when I wanted to have it all? The thought that I had to sacrifice one direction over another made me wish I was still studying.