The topic tortures me for sometime indeed, and in this same manner I can't bring myself to organize my thoughts too coherently about it and in a way this doesn't come willy-nilly or deliberately but turns out to be the departure point from which any other reflections can spring forth, of whichever nature they might be. Often I criticize myself for the emptily academish style in which I write for myself, always starting with a truly personal musing and then suddenly and without major intentions wafting slowly into philosophy again as though the hinges that close the door of my thoughts and open the unfolding truth of my everyday life couldn't just as much find one another, melting into the same world picture and vomitting unsurmountable anxiety in a bath of blood out of which only my purest thoughts can survive, excluding all reality altogether from sight or perception.
I've also found myself conversing with friends about how one should write about his feelings (and even have found a very nice bunch of nemesis for myself and for free) or about his thoughts. In this level I find most people (except her, my painter) rather estranged and compartmentalized into clusters that inter-spherically divide one's particular realm in the momentum from the other. That isn't true for me at all, because out of this permanent state of mourning in which the hysterical laughter is the only possible response, I can by no means establish a clear difference between the philosophy, the poetry, the literature and "the life"; because my musings never have an intellectual departure even though they're heavily informed by the obsessions of those philosophies and lettres under whose spell I've unknowingly fallen, my imaginary flight doesn't stand right next to life or a little distances from it but rather it is "the life" itself and the most sincere commitment to "change" this unchosen everyday life is the only motivation that fuels the wheels of my imagination, representation.
I see myself under the toll of this everyday life in a very positive way which brings me to contemplate somehow and then pierce through the averageness with the help of traditions and intrincate ideas. It's more than anything else a problem of a linguistic nature, in which the nature itself of the everyday is seemly not meaningless at all but rather broken and the non-poetic thinking fails in my experience to bring together the fragments of one's Existenz within this averageness. I think in everyday terms, reason for which any worldly experience finds easily a philosophical or poetic counterpart to complete the picture and realize it in its fullest capacity through which it denies the "reality" in a way so that it can achieve meaning. All of these fragmentary experiences obviously departing from an experience of truth itself that then unfolds in order to become itself by distancing from the truth in a subtle manner, repeating a creation story anew.
The acquisition of a language that permits one to "cover" his own's everyday with the thick veil of possibility, remains the main struggle here... and in this sense the division between the "compartments" of one's humanity doesn't fall into place. This search for meaning denies ontological freedom (which in modern thought goes far beyond the mere unreflected existence) and advances the future not in a Utopian sense but only through a postponment of the present. It's a translation of that lost uncanny "homeland", once it can never again be retrieved. This is the ultimative (yet not the quintessential) definition of Modernity.
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