Reset: what remains when we lost everything Bashny.Net

During a crisis or strong shocks often seems like life has stopped. If life divided into "before" and "after", it is twisted to zero the sliders for color and it became black and white, and you are in an empty room, separated from the street and the rest of the thick and soft wall. If your body went on the train, and the intangible spirit left standing on the platform. Light enough that he can't leave footprints in the freshly fallen snow.

As if you paused it, and left the movement somewhere in other place, probably somewhere outside, and you're behind everyone else for a thousandth of a second, but it enough to be absolutely alone. This place is unusual and the space between the objects is filled with confusion, is it binding, like molten amber, which wants you to spend eternity in a frozen and lost mobility of the figure.





In this place everything seems to be as before, but the space is not enough curvature, and you don't have enough space — the wind has not around, and passes through, people's views not reflected on your skin and will not be returned on the retina with a shopping bag full of impressions. You run into walls, because they are not playing up and not move over, feeling your presence. It seems that your skin is inflamed and permeable and rain, penetrating into the epidermis in the shoulder area, flows directly over the bones and sprinkles in hand, bursting from under the nail plate, as from a drainpipe.

So, it seems that life stopped. But it stopped not life at all. It's stopped usual life. A life where your existence is supported by many things, each of which by itself is devoid of content and value. But coming together, they suddenly become you. And when that happens, it seems that it is possible to leave this body forever, and it will continue to live, making a career, raising kids and collecting stamps.

To become a zombie, do not have to die, you can do it while still alive. And only occasionally, in spring or autumn, at the hour of sunset unusually hot or shrill dawn, this body will stop, as if stumbling on a blank void, and pausing for a moment, taken again to digest uncertainty, turning it into a stool order. But at this point if I setup and purchase, and you can feel yourself living the default "factory" settings, unfamiliar with the rules and obligations. To reset yourself back to the point from which come all the possibilities. To be free from that whole world has to carry on his shoulders a sort of Atlantis of the spirit, exhausted by the daily struggle with themselves. With iris, as if crushed from the inside from the scale of brain soup, boiling in a sealed cranial cap. Though most often it doesn't last long and next thought, like a ball in a bowling alley already trampled on the doorstep and waving a banner: "Oh, th is me? I'm going devour!".

Because, as the poet said, only losing everything, you become free. Not poor, naked, squandered talents, repressirovali in infantilism, a loser and a jerk, narcissistic cesspool, and free. Without losing, and while purchasing. Moreover, by purchasing something that was with you always. How strange that while the most desirable is as close in order to achieve it, we have to make the long journey in life, but not round-the-world and circle-thing. Walk around yourself, to return to the point from which started. Go behind yourself and see what you thought of him, a mere shadow on the pavement, which, as a prostitute, willingly goes to any filled surface. And under this view it deflates and disappears in the afternoon.



This is my understanding of existential anguish as the experience of meaninglessness of life, but again, not life in General, and the life that suddenly seems meaningless. Melancholy is vaccinated against blindness, which does not allow to see the present. There is a huge resource, because in order to find the source, you must first feel the thirst. The little that remains when we lost everything — it is you.

In this state there are no separate events, as the path from point A to point B.there is No choice as need to take one thing to give up everything else. No desires as objectives to which aspiring mind. There is simply presence, and the inability to be something else. As the ball rolls down the neck of the funnel.

And now, back to the beginning of the text, it seems to me that you can still get it all back, to fill the longing in a duvet cover day-to-day habits, to pour her mothballs and bring parents into the garage. To pretend that nothing happened and all the longing of the spirit — a consequence of bad digestion and the change of the mode of illumination.

Or, barely holding back the fear from the fact that the walls banding habitable space, somewhere to disappear, and instead, only contour maps of Genesis, which even have nothing to paint, you can try to stay with it. To put aside the idea that moved the world will never be able to catch up. Stopping for some time in zero gravity and stop to revolve around the monumental and definitive stars that beckon and misleading. Let all going somewhere, to a sad or solemn, well now here without you. And then discovered an amazing effect — it turns out that it's not you, and everything is paused and awaiting your return, because without you there is actually life. As if without you there is no rolling and now the world is actually drawn with a Sharpie on the Wallpaper. And then at any time to return to my life as the surgeon enters in a Bathrobe, hands forward. After all, you yourself is the socket, which stuck Christmas garland.

I think this is is the value of the crisis — the ability to open in the life of the door and go outside to see what was happening. See careening in the train of people who have had no choice in which direction to move. In a series of changing events to discover what is invariable. To understand, and do I need what is happening now. To be in silence to hear the inner voice. To finally start to finish the text, pregnant with metaphors and vague allusions to what could not too understand the author, but should be familiar to the reader... published

Author: Maxim Pestov

 

P. S. And remember, just changing your mind — together we change the world! ©

 

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