I have a peculiar relationship with writing — as an art, as an activity, as a way of life: most of what I write serves to explain to myself the reasons for doing what I care about. I am constantly looking for something that lies under my nose, wondering if I will ever notice it. "It" creeps on the periphery of sight, lies in the gaps in meaning, in the feeling of inner decay resembling a pile of rotting autumn leaves at the very bottom of the soul. Searching in the dark, constructing tools of observation from words, I hope to carve out a trace in reality — a trace by which I can return home when I have gone too far. A trace that connects me to others in time and space, entwining me with "something more" that nevertheless remains simply human, rooted in the everyday world of five ordinary, everyday senses.
The experience of creation, especially in such abstract realms as writing, wanders between the sense of immateriality (and thus meaninglessness, which I associate with it) of the creations coming out from under my fingers, and the inherently physical experience of transmitting a kind of unnameable energy. In the philosophy I read and try to create, I don't worry about transcendence, but, in moments of doubt, the desire to return to earth from a place of detachment from everything and everyone causes my mind to run away from what I love — from writing, from creating, from thinking — overwhelmed by the fear that I have strayed to far from the world, contributing nothing to it and occupying myself with something completely unnecessary. In this context, transcendence produces fear. It functions as an impossible horizon which I approach when I stop feeling like a part of the world. On the other hand, as I often forget, the act of writing always exists in material reality and even in its most abstract form does not reach any transcendent ceiling. Words rise from the depths of my diaphragm, and the air exhaled from my lungs spreads them over the ground. Sometimes they pass through my fingers like electricity, making their mark on the world, which I perceive as a web intertwined with the meanings they carry.
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