The consciousness of possibility

“...He was wondering aimlessly one November afternoon with his friend D. Nothing was happening. But in each of them, at that moment, a sense of infinite possibilities. Nothing was happening. Or else one could say that it was this consciousness of possibility, in fact, that was happening”. P. A.


The consciousness of possibility as something that allow you breath, as something that guaranty you to have a widely open horizon to explore by yourself. The consciousness of possibility as vanishing point as much as upward point.

Voice of truth

“... if there is a voice of truth --assuming there is such a thing as truth, and assuming this truth can speak-- it comes from the mouth of a woman.” P. A.

Is their closer connection with nature, is their intuition, is their special sensibility... I don't know what it is, but women seem to have the privilege to be talked through by the truth.

Mirage

“Just because you wander in the desert, it does not mean there is a promise land”, P. A.
Used to live in the desert, when he saw a promised land he thought that it was not real and he kept going on. A mirage or an illusion, or how to be scared of your own good luck. I never had thought this could be possible, so to be consistent with myself I'm gonna do my best to deny the fact of my good luck.

Genius or Mad

The thin line that separes genius from mad... The same exteriority, the same careless for the conventions, a kind of excentric point of view.

To be alive into the world

Writing about the world for living in the world, or to be alive into the world. But it's possible to live in another place? It's possible to live into the nothing? Or this simply means that one doesn't exist at all? The act of writing as the act of doing reality, of giving shape to the passing time, of giving sense to the meaninglessness of the everyday acts.

Forgetfulness

What I could do, and what I want to. Or, in other words, if you don't choose your circumstances, the circumstances are going to choose for you.

* * * * *

“Memory, then, not so much as the past contained within us, but as proof of our life in the present. If a man is to be truly present among his surroundings, he must be thinking not of himself, but of what he sees. He must forget himself in order to be there. And from that forgetfulness arises the power of memory. It is a way of living one's life so that nothing is ever lost.” (P. A., The invention of solitude). Now I understand a little better my lacks of memory.

The inner life

The inner life as what gives sense to everything that cannot be shared in our social actions. Even our social actions are only completely understood by reference to this self-perception.