Tuesday, November 12
11/12
Earlier today a piece of very unfortunate news was delivered to me - Magnus, my former boss, had been hospitalized last night due to a bike accident near Harlaching, and he will be receiving his surgery tomorrow. I wish that the doctors who will be treating him take good care of him. May God bless him.
Saturday, November 9
11/9
This November I have bidden a quiet farewell, one that is known but not said. These days when I meet people I hardly bother to present myself fully. In the real world there is always an implicit sense of futility. And since I, like many other people, use restraint as an insurance policy for it, farewells, usually associated with some unchecked emotions, can then be carried out quietly. Instead of the hackneyed formalities of "bye", "take care" and "good luck in life", a conversation simply ends when no new message arrives.
I do not recall exactly when I have become used to this kind of farewell as I was not. I don't think there is a moment or a series of moments that have hastened the transition. As the years go by and life progresses, something has just gradually brewed in me that allows everything to feel more palatable. I have seen many things and people being gained and then the same being lost - in between there are often some noises and fights, but those are mostly short-lived and rarely make a difference. Recognizing this, I now pick my battles wisely.
Life after the farewell is the same as it was before the farewell. Looking around, I couldn't see any material change. The world does not turn more blue or more gray because of the thoughts of an individual, though the reverse is quite true. Some bits of the morning fog seem to glisten as the clouds temporarily thin out to let the sunlight through. The cycles of weather in Munich are always mashed up together, difficult to tell apart.
In this November everything seems feeble, so was everything last November, and the November before. The mild morning light shines through the window, casting my shadow on the wooden floor - an elongated circular head that sits on top of a rectangular box with rounded corners. The trees, compared with a few weeks ago, seem looser. I can see more of the colored houses from across the woods. I am not interested in the houses, nor am I curious about the story-lines of the people living there. When I go to work, I pass by some of those houses on my way to the bus station. I see on the door tags the names I could neither pronounce nor remember. Nowadays I dare to acknowledge most things in my life only quietly or passingly, sometimes due to a lack of need, or a lack of time, or simply, a lack of reason. But interestingly the outcomes of these tacit acknowledgements aren't better or worse than those for which I have actively tried. The only difference I have observed, is the lack of repercussions from the former. Dostoevsky said: "The man who has a conscience suffers whilst acknowledging his sin. That is his punishment." Conversely, crimes that are committed half-heartedly and acknowledged passingly, must often go unpunished. And somehow I have learned to exploit this fact.
To me, the lights, the trees, the houses, and many other things this morning are faraway. I'm detached from them because I have no obligations towards them. But being detached from things does not mean being free. In fact, being detached from things sometimes is the opposite of being free. In this room where I am idle, I'm locked in my idleness; where I detach myself, I'm burdened by what I have let go. The misty white lights which shine through the windows, the leaves which fall from the trees, the houses which are lived by people unknown to me, collectively create a picture which I am not in.
And I reach out for something in the lump of air in front of me like a baby reaching out for its milk. But nothing is there.
I do not recall exactly when I have become used to this kind of farewell as I was not. I don't think there is a moment or a series of moments that have hastened the transition. As the years go by and life progresses, something has just gradually brewed in me that allows everything to feel more palatable. I have seen many things and people being gained and then the same being lost - in between there are often some noises and fights, but those are mostly short-lived and rarely make a difference. Recognizing this, I now pick my battles wisely.
Life after the farewell is the same as it was before the farewell. Looking around, I couldn't see any material change. The world does not turn more blue or more gray because of the thoughts of an individual, though the reverse is quite true. Some bits of the morning fog seem to glisten as the clouds temporarily thin out to let the sunlight through. The cycles of weather in Munich are always mashed up together, difficult to tell apart.
In this November everything seems feeble, so was everything last November, and the November before. The mild morning light shines through the window, casting my shadow on the wooden floor - an elongated circular head that sits on top of a rectangular box with rounded corners. The trees, compared with a few weeks ago, seem looser. I can see more of the colored houses from across the woods. I am not interested in the houses, nor am I curious about the story-lines of the people living there. When I go to work, I pass by some of those houses on my way to the bus station. I see on the door tags the names I could neither pronounce nor remember. Nowadays I dare to acknowledge most things in my life only quietly or passingly, sometimes due to a lack of need, or a lack of time, or simply, a lack of reason. But interestingly the outcomes of these tacit acknowledgements aren't better or worse than those for which I have actively tried. The only difference I have observed, is the lack of repercussions from the former. Dostoevsky said: "The man who has a conscience suffers whilst acknowledging his sin. That is his punishment." Conversely, crimes that are committed half-heartedly and acknowledged passingly, must often go unpunished. And somehow I have learned to exploit this fact.
To me, the lights, the trees, the houses, and many other things this morning are faraway. I'm detached from them because I have no obligations towards them. But being detached from things does not mean being free. In fact, being detached from things sometimes is the opposite of being free. In this room where I am idle, I'm locked in my idleness; where I detach myself, I'm burdened by what I have let go. The misty white lights which shine through the windows, the leaves which fall from the trees, the houses which are lived by people unknown to me, collectively create a picture which I am not in.
And I reach out for something in the lump of air in front of me like a baby reaching out for its milk. But nothing is there.