Morning

The mornings come often accompanied by bloated epiphanies, by a vacuum in the air that is followed by a particularly white smell. Mornings are always great disappointment for the moderns, what separates the divine and the profane, the deeds of criminals, sin and life, in the mornings we must hide in urbanity wearing faces of decay, weary from themselves.

It comes in the form of an antithesis that for the philosopher means only despair, with acts of speech that create hindered by an empty odor of freedom, by a negation. We awaken to the artifacts of the world and experience the democratic effect of that technological imagination meant to constitute the liberties of democracy, whereas the philosopher has experienced this is a world by all means antidemocratic in which the thinker's sermon only resembles the negation of reality, the innermost necessity and rather desperate crave to distance oneself from the world of visible phenomena. A man searches for the cross, he wants to escape the powerful nature of reality, he wants to escape life because then answers might be given to him. His flight is no longer possible, he is faced with Kant's dead nature.

Last night I imagined again our Midrash, in which he sat idly by the dim light of candles at the table with his wife and sang Biblical verses to his children; he was still young and strong with the knowing smile of silence. It was Shabbat and the modest dishes would come in the disguise of earthly palaces, of timely palaces. He would cover his head to give his God due respect; the small young family sings in the dim light "... and he shall summon freedom...."; the fresh smell of tears, of deceive and of a philosopher's love hangs in the air and hovers on the soup plates but it cannot be noticed, because death has a particular likeness to it, and whoever hearkens to the God of Israel knows well his sentence has been written, written in the New Year and sealed in the Atonement Day.

That smell reminds one of contempt, the contempt of bodiliness... of intimacy, the closeness of a flight that surrounds one like pain circumvents the flesh and turns it ripe for love. The philosopher has allegedly deserted all hope, he only lives on the house of memory and language; in a world fed with all possible deceives.

In the other end of the city as friends remind each other of Shabbat and sing the bride's songs just like she does with husband and son.... The philosopher remains aloof with the physicality of his dread, of his body, he aches. And he reminds himself that Easter is not like Shabbat, he dreams about the Passion of the Lord, not because he hopes for anything but because he knows, he remembers.

He remembers the accounts of wisdom and their protagonist Jesus, and do not we all yearn for him and for Socrates? Even in Jerusalem, we remember them well. The philosopher can only think of that protestation that turned him into a useless figure, into a liturgical paradox, into a prayer that finds often the deaf ears of the modern world, into a prayer that has chosen itself to remain aloof from the heavenly gates, into a prayer that translates itself into the loneliest of all possible worlds. The philosophers yearns for Easter again. Lover and beloved are both survivors, like Anje... mute survivors.