Journal 15.05.10

I feel like I am living two lives, this life and a parallel life: one life in the books I am reading and writing, and another one, the false life, the one I am living. There are all these books and pages, all these big projects, realistic and not realistic, the notes I jot down, the letters I write, the friends I have or would like to have; the grandeur with which everything is furnished and all the possible risks that I take on my own. The life I am living is only like a feeble and poorly decorated entrance hall: In that life I am a student and many other things, the life of a young man sometimes running free, meandering and trying to avoid at the point of unwillingness, to engage in life. Sometimes the two lives blend into one: Inebriated days, theatrical and reckless, the danger is inconsequential and the sin is just too big to be tampered with mere hallelujahs. But I always return to the life that I am not living and yet it is a life so clean from fantasies and so deliberately beset against moments of non-being; the false life and the real life struggle together, avoid imagining each other, flee from their opposite constraints in order to tackle their own, which at last they want to flee as well. In the writing life, I attempt with all might to disconnect myself from the life I am living, I spare no efforts to bury it beneath millions of pages, as if they could stand for hill of cold wet earth, of concrete. The lived life sometimes takes on a ghostly appearance, it haunts the writer, it persuades him quite convincingly about the futileness of it all, about his inability to handle what he has to live through; that´s why he altogether writes. Sometimes the writing is a treasure hunt inside a volcano, and the results, are always so disappointing. A volcano seems too big a place to hunt for needles.