Well after sorting out the incredibly broad amount of §$%" contained in this space, which for the record is really good material for my work (whenever I can bring myself to do it properly, like today) and all the time I'm bewildered at all what I find. The poems I really don't like anymore two days after I wrote them, I find them stupid and meaningless really, except for some brilliant pieces done a long time ago... in the epithome of the lyrical age, which is no more. What does surprise me in a way is the prose pieces, the journal notes... and at that in a very manifold way, because they really reveal a lot. Some of the older postings (from 2003, 2004) make me burst into hysterical laughter... they're so authentically stupid and naive and I wish no one will read them ever again, not even me... but this is just for the record, I won't bother to delete or edit anything, I'm as I'm. On other accounts, well, it really impresses me how I came to know those things I wrote about in regard to philosophy, because in reality only now (for the last 1.5 years or so) I can really claim to 'know' about such things and the security with which I spoke about them, together with the accuracy of what I said for the most part, is really a source of surprise. Lastly I truly admire the innocence and naivetè to be found in those writings, the lack of experience and the hope, the youthful anger and the rather coordinate language.
It does strike me as byzarre how what I'm thinking today appears to me as fresh and new, innovative, and at times even spectacular or crazy... but the truth is that it's been in store for years now and only by re-readinf myself with some critical calm I come to understand that I'm doing what I'm supposed to do. The innocence and clarity has been no doubt lost, the dettachment from reality and the joyful expectation... it's a pity really, but things have waned on me in significantly diverging patterns in these last years. Only I can know about those things, to recognize that almost feminine voice of those days and all what hid beneath those long nights of writing and unthinking, it's pretty awful stuff but it was maybe just the beginning of something else which still seems far but at least it's on the agenda. Eveline is always so correct about those things, one can only work with raw materials that are part of one's own life, because in a way the activity (of philosophy) has always been there, always.