Absurdism at its best

Excerpts from: Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot.”


I get used to the muck as I go along.


( after prolonged reflection) . Is that the opposite?


Question of temperament.


Of character.


Nothing you can do about it.


No use struggling.


One is what one is.


No use wriggling.


The essential doesn’t change.”


Ah! Why couldn’t you say so before? Why he doesn’t make himself comfortable? Let’s try and get this clear. Has he not the right to? Certainly he has. It follows that he doesn’t want to. There’s reasoning for you. And why doesn’t he want to? ( Pause. ) Gentlemen, the reason is this.


( to Estragon) . Make a note of this.


He wants to impress me, so that I’ll keep him.”


What is terrible is to have thought.


But did that ever happen to us?


Where are all these corpses from?


These skeletons.


Tell me that.




We must have thought a little.”


How often it is that we don’t realise what we have in our lives that we need to be grateful for. How very often it is that in the competition to become absolutely like someone else we often forget who we are, only to realize it when it’s too late. Of course I also have some reservations about this phrase “too late” since what is exactly “too late” if anything? Pffft.

I am 35 and I still do not want to think that it is too late… so is it a relative term then? I thought 35 would be too late when I was 25… but now I believe I still have time until I reach 45. Will I still have time at 45? Maybe. Maybe I’ll never know and maybe that is all that keeps me alive. HOPE. The ability to think that there is still something out there that might have the slightest ability to make my life better than what it is now. Something that will miraculously make me realise all of my idle potential, something that will inspire me again, release all my fears and eventually make me a better version of myself.

To many people I know, I write about nothing at all, crap, if you may. My own opinion of my humble attempt at writing is not much different. But then, I write from the heart; whatever stumbles upon my ever-confused mind, somehow takes the shape of the written word. It’s uncensored, raw and rather unpolished. And that is exactly what makes it feel what it is, crap or perhaps nothing…. but decisively mine. Call it whatever you may but I know I excel at it. And there are not many things I excel at.

Even if I feel like imitating someone from time to time, deep down inside I have this irritating awareness of who I really am;
cunningly deceiving what I write every now and then, giving me away.

The absolutely wonderful fact is that I do not write for any specific audience at all. Who am I writing for? I still do not know, but someday someone will just accidently stumble upon this blog of mine and will want to read exactly what I write.

I will keep writing for that one person.

Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot

“The general considered that the girls’ taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature deliberately, and that the parents’ duty should merely be to keep watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made; but that the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily reached.”

“I used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life should be grander and richer—and then it struck me that life may be grand enough even in a prison.’”

“Once I am rich, I shall be a genius, an extremely original man. One of the vilest and most hateful things connected with money is that it can buy even talent; and will do so as long as the world lasts. You will say that this is childish—or romantic.”

“What is a terrible disgrace to a woman, does not disgrace a man, at least not in the same way. Perhaps public opinion is wrong in condemning one sex, and excusing the other.”

“In such circumstances there can, of course, be no doubt. One’s conscience very soon informs one what is the proper narrative to tell. I admit, that among the many silly and thoughtless actions of my life, the memory of one comes prominently forward and reminds me that it lay long like a stone on my heart.”

The Idiot (1869)
Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Nostalgia is a mistress

Nostalgia is a mistress one can’t help but fall in love with. And once that happens one is eternally doomed. Falling in love with misery never does anyone any good.
But i’ve found nostalgia to be different. It has that amazing power of lifting me up when i’m down and out, when I need it the most.
It can also bring me down and throw me heartlessly on the ground if I keep staring at it for too long.
But maybe being aware of something is different from actually admitting that thing exists. My past had everything in me that i need now.
And maybe i’m wrong, but i need to find that fire, that hope, that inspiration again.
I owe it to myself and my life that has become a lie.
I owe it to the person i was and the person i will be when i die.

Never let your light shine down…

Listening to music, the old kind, the kind you listened to when the nights were still young, life still made sense and you still had hope for yourself and for the world. The ability of that music to invoke those long forgotten feelings in you is tremendous, and one that can never be underestimated.
It is almost like you are a different person when you have your headphones on, engulfed in nostalgia. Like anything is still possible, that you can still find hope again. It is a feeling that i possibly cannot describe in words but can only experience.
And what an experience, it is.