It sometimes seems like an impossible task to calm down the thoughts. I start meditating, but then I realise that I’m just thinking, entertaining myself with different scenarios and possibilities. I guess that’s not bad either, but it’s quite the opposite of what I should be doing. What about that paradox that we can’t meditate, that the one trying to meditate is the ego and that it can never achieve it, it’s like trying to solve something with itself. Maybe the answers do lie in the questions themselves, but this is a doing, or a being, not a solving; maybe it’s not really about asking questions or looking for answers. Maybe it’s about being in its totality, in all that uncertainty and not knowing, because we don’t know a lot. How is that floating in the ocean of not knowing? How do I let go? Maybe deep down, I know how, but we are clinging to not knowing because it’s scary to let go. It’s scary to let go of all the assumptions, convictions, prejudices, and behaviours because they are part of our survival kit. Are we not going to survive if we let go of them? Let go. Let go. Let go. Let go of fear, of prediction, of grudges, of worries. Let go. How would it feel to let go? Nevertheless the ego, I feel like I’m down the right path. I’m going towards uncertainty and depth, I’m going to anxiety and the ugly, the mechanics of myself. In this process, I want to stay grounded, connected to the deep, to the intuition, to the core, because abstraction has no end, and it can end up in complete illusion. That’s why meditation, breathing, feeling. I don’t want to separate myself from the body, from the gut, from my feet, from my palms, from my eyes and neck; I need to be it. I am it.
Are my efforts to be a writer in contradiction with presence, meditation, and connectedness? I wouldn’t say they have to be. All artistic expression requires presence and connection with the moment that produces the words. Because to stay connected with the mind is equally important. Now, as I write, my mind is so rapidly thinking of concepts, and my thumbs are following as fast as they can, and both are working unconsciously; I am not trying to write this; it’s coming out itself. So, what am I doing, and who is the I? Now my mind drifted, fearing and predicting. It fears betrayal a lot, being cheated on; it is really scary as fuck. Maybe it should happen to overcome it, maybe the way out of this fear is to go straight into it. To sacrifice everything and let go, to fall in love, to love and allow to be loved. Can I do this? I think I can but probably I don’t want to. But letting go and diving into fear wouldn’t be more predicting, more safeguarding, anticipating. Would it be trusting without a reason to trust? Would it be living without doubt, open to hurt and to everything? Would it mean losing my manliness? Why? Because I could have been building myself and enjoying instead of allowing another to break my heart.
By building yourself you probably mean building your ego. You are building yourself now, in any case. I will let go, I will love. I will let my heart beat with fear and courage and for her. I will
Above the clouds
On the other side of the aircraft orange rays of sun are coming through the windows. A man is holding his head. His eyes are closed and an elegant, silver watch decorates the holding hand. The navy blue insides of the watch are well matched with his blue pullover, and the silver watch is well matched with his grey hair. He gives the impression of a successful man, although a bit restless. The man is thinking, and I wonder what of. Now he looks through the window, and out the window, an orange sunset is playing over a sheet of fluffy clouds. It is already dark on my side of the aisle, and through the window, only shades of orange decorate the upper part of the sky. Below, through transparent clouds, I see tiny lights and still contours of cities. It’s been almost an hour since we took off, and now there is a coast of some sea below us. It is hard to estimate where we are. I have never flown across this part, but I suppose it only makes sense for it to be the Baltic. If I open the maps. I might now, but I might lose the feeling of not knowing. I was wrong. It’s not the coast but clouds giving an illusion of the sea.
I didn’t have many interactions today or in these two days of travelling in general. Unusual to my typical behaviour, I wasn’t trying to make each encounter meaningful or establish communication deeper than the formalities. I withdrew into myself and just did my stuff. “A writer writes” they say, so instead of meditating and listening to Wardruna for 2 hours straight, I decided to be a writer and write. “I can’t spend two precious hours meditating,” I thought. Now I don’t know what to write about anymore, but the words are still coming out. It’s fascinating. Just constant chatter, the mind would rather talk about itself, not having what to talk about, than be quiet. What a paradox. The chatter is chatting about itself not having what to chatter about. Sometimes, I wonder whether indulging in these mind abstractions is healthy; maybe I’m pushing myself into madness. I suppose it’s far better than keeping it in and pretending it’s not there. The chatter needs its moments to shine, to show off its astonishing ability to chatter. Now it drifted off. Amazing. It drifted off from its own doing. What is it to actually do things in the absence of the mind? Is it yet another mind trick? Of course not; I know what it is, but I need to re-learn experiencing it more often. Even this, paradoxically, can be done in such a way, and currently I’m doing it. Let me experiment for a bit. I will try and infuse emotion into this text, as currently, I’m only indulging in abstractions. Where is the emotion? In my stomach? I feel some blockage there. I feel blocked but then I feel even worse for feeling that way. Sometimes, I think it’s unavoidable to be a sufferer as a writer, to be a tragic character doomed to observe and never be a proactive part of. The thing is I also have that part of myself. Can they co-exist? Can I train martial arts, give so much damage to my body until it hardens, and at the same time practice the sensibility that writing requires? Writing requires the fullest ability to feel, to understand on every level, and to observe. Maybe the martial arts do too; it depends on the approach. Am I hardening myself by disassociation or by entering the punch and the pain with full awareness?
Can these two activities coexist? Seems like they can. Should I aim for unity of action and activities for single-minded purposes? I don’t fucking know. To be a writer and nothing else? But what can I write about then? But to live for a profession, does it require to do only what is connected to it? Would it even be fun to have these answers? Would I like the answers? Sometimes I don’t know if I am a fool or a wizard. My outward look and what I’m trying to demonstrate, some sort of spiritual and earthly power, grounded yet elevated, serious yet seeing beauty, is quite funny sometimes. It’s funny how serious I am sometimes, and it’s nice to have people like Mia and Benedikt who see this and laugh at it but also appreciate it and see that it has meaning, that it’s not only a mask.Maybe now is enough about the self. I’m getting bored and tired, finally.
About one more hour and I will see Mia. I think that’s gonna be the longest kiss Franjo Tudman airport has ever witnessed. I want to enjoy this time with her. If necessary, I will push myself. I will try to get out of the fucking prefrontal cortex jibberish, I’ll take scheduled tequila shots as medicine if necessary, and I’ll go all crazy and cheerful. Why not for fucks sake. Is there any proper reason not to enjoy it? Please tell me, dear mind, my dearest torturer and critic.The flight attendant is holding a set of cards for a Ryanairs lucky game. I’m feeling lucky, and I will take two.