There was a lot of input this summer, so much that no words came out of it. Always postponing the next post for tomorrow, always looking forward to a better day, in which everything would make sense, things and thoughts would fall onto their right place (sa se-aseze lucrurile un pic) and I would find my mind. That day never came and summer is turning to an end. The 30th of august, and soon I'll sing the 25-year old song that I used to be puzzled about ten years ago. That moment of revelation is just as far now as it was back then and will probably be ten years from now, the only difference is the "heard this" "seen that" feeling creeping in, and some seemingly final decisions luring around the corner. But then there's this two-week old new plan of mine, that I haven't given up on yet (careful, not everything that can fly is edible...). With a touch of luck I might see it coming to life before the fresh snow, given that I'm living in Britain.
But I was thinking about the past (?) summer. I've tried out the British coast and its fish and chips, I've had a short taste of Romanian bucolic landscapes, wedding traditions and mititei, I've discovered a new state of mind to long for by the Portuguese Atlantic waves, while nibbing on snails, swordfish and pastels. I've had the "wish I was there" and "why I am doing this" aches, and I was parachuted back one sunny day into the same confused soul that had swallowed my pen. Somehow it seems like the more is coming in, the less is getting out of this system, and I don't see how this can be. While everybody around me is talking about creativity, it appears that they are trying to build the most constrained box to fit the "ideally shaped" creativity into. They have this clear picture of executive creativity, productive and purpose-oriented. Randomness does not exist or if it does it's a disgusting under-feature that is to be ignored or shamefully disguised. Intuition is foolishness. Absolute logic, even though trapped in the very limitations of our current knowledge, should guide our own lives and, weak as were are, we should by no means give in to the meanders of irrationality. And then be puzzled about the dryness of our non-existing souls and the lack of revolutionary impulses. So what makes a life worth living and how true can you allow yourself to be to your own foolish heart?
How do I find words for describing the what happens when we become our own religion?
