The Internet writer is like a lonely singing sailor who hopes that in the ocean depths somebody listens.
- Who am I? A whisper, a tiny offshoot of the universal storm.
- My little interior world where everything important happens. My little nonexistent world.
- I don't know if I have legs or wings as I pass low over a wide range of ever-changing landscape.
- Where am I who guides
Where am I who is guided
Who am I who guides
Who am I who is guided.
- I am not this one and not that one. I am somebody else.
- My fate pulls me by the hair.
- My triumphs are imaginary but deserved.
- The world chokes in me and I choke with the world. My skin is too tight for both of us.
- Thoughts move in my head like pieces on the chessboard. Somebody else moves the pieces.
- I mix my thoughts with my breath and a whispering halo surrounds my head.
- I anchor myself where the hidden meaning calls me. Meaning is hidden when perception outgrows understanding.
- I am sitting in a quiet library, summing up my notes, ordering my thoughts. Still, I live a thunderous drama in this very moment.
- I don't believe that the Big Bang occurred just to annoy me.
- Inhabited by a blind beast, I try my best.
- Insomnia: rejected by sleep and awakening, I remain suspended in a hostile void, exposed to the rampages of Time.
- For me, to wake up late is like being born as an adult.
- You have deserted yourself for a long time. Go home, go home, go home.
- I am naturally a good person, the contrary of a repentant sinner who is the only one deserving of absolution and grace. Sometimes I would like to be able to harm someone, but with the weaker it's too easy and with the stronger it's too hard. So, I persist in my sweet mediocrity.
- My ancestors, like tiny leprechauns, crowd in the folds of my brain and talk, talk, talk . . .
- I am not part of this world. I am a guest of this world and companion of myself.
- It doesn't matter what I learn, it's always me -- naked me.
- He extracted music with the tip of his fingers, with the bow, drummed with the palm of his hand ... I raised my head, closed my eyes and looked at the drops of sound.
- I place myself, such as I am, in the present, permanently. And this is my peak.
- You are bread, you are butter.
And my hunger is not fulfilled.
So what if you don't want my mouth.
- Like a plant in inhospitable ground, she had to thrust her roots deep to find -- me.
- I had a woman who loved me and I lost her. I had a man who loved me and I lost him. I had a child who loved me and I lost him. I had an animal that loved me and I lost it. Now I have a stone that loves me and I will never lose it!
Inverted Hermit (Tarot)
(to "E." who told me who I am)
- -- Who are you?
-- The last man on earth.
-- What do you make?
-- With a magic wand.
-- What for?
-- No reason.
-- Among thorns.
- My life runs too slowly, therefore it becomes a mirror in which nothing reflects but empty time.
- What am I -- spiritual or materialist? Both. And both in the wrong places.
- My eternity is now -- there are no outstanding moments in the life of a hermit.
- The hermit, like a sailboat, floats where the wind pushes; otherwise, stands still.
- Hermit, your existence is not important -- not even for you.
- Hermit has no container for emotions but has emotions. What can he do with them? Sow them in the air?
- Where is the place for the Inverted Hermit? There is no place for him in him. Only empty space embraces him with its indifference.
- In an old barrio of Barcelona:
I entered this tavern full of mystery
and I thought: "It's here, my monastery."
- In the exterior world are whirlpools, sharp turns, dangerous crossroads while I roam freely in my interior, silent, limitless, empty universe. Sometimes, out of the mist, landmarks appear -- aphorisms and other images. But how much truth, untruth, half truth is in all of this? For me truth is a soap bubble.
- Inverted Hermit, what is your name? Brother Snail -- carrying his cell on his back.
- When the desert enters desert -- what kind of graphic composition can they create?
- Better deception than void.
- Void is the feeling that life is running away and you have no power to hold it.
- Prisoner: limitless time in limited space.
- There is no difference between the person singing to himself and the wolf howling to the moon; both voice their solitude.
- Within the urban noise my solitude is internal solitude.
In nature, the external and internal solitudes unite, envelop me and expand. I become part of the universal.
In sleepy surroundings the external and internal solitudes unite and choke me. Unlimited space can be a prison.
- Zen -- poetry of the void -- versus Nietzsche's denunciation of the void as an abyss.
I follow Nietzsche. I can endure harsh content but not void.
- Can we send void into void? No, because void is not malleable.
- When we feel void in our lives, space becomes our cage. We become container and content simultaneously and there is no buffer between us and us.
- We read in books of the Orient that "spirit inhabits the void"; Personally, and perhaps following Nietzsche, I perceive void rather as an absence of spirit.
- How to sculpt in the void? By giving it my own skin as a surface.
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