Trying-light

I am wandering in my room under my bookshelf. This castaway posture is the best guardian of my humanity. This immobile, thirty-something situation faithfully preserves my vanished, sinking self, who, with his face clinging to piles of paper and digital stacks in the universality of cultures, could still feel and hear from this interest-dictated masquerade the kind of feelings that only the soul-seeing can sense, honest messengers can understand, and who could hear from his own little self-confident self a yearning for difference that would at once warn and admonish all who could ever remain human.

This sitting, consciously still movement touches me with the reckoning of my puppyhood, a self-nurturing holy consolation - it raises my creative hand before my creative, performance thoughts and is able to make me believe, without any pretension, that no one can trample the oscoli of my texts any more.

- I sit still in the shadow of my bookshelf. The sixty-watt light bulb, always glowing, makes my steadfast and ready work a little easier. Is there anyone else who will surely deserve all the work and the coming? I think silently - but talkatively. I can hardly keep awake my self-belief that my things can one day take a hopeful turn for the better and more, because there will be a Valaki, who will continue to believe in me and continue my cultural miseries in my stead.

Here, in the bitter cold of the morning, I was working in the majestic realm of letters. I've shuddered many a time, as one who has made a truly epoch-making, vast discovery only can't have the guts, and the World still willfully unworthy can scarcely know it. Outward and inward worlds become my traitors, whether I will or not - my inward lack of human-ambiguous, sad existence rises...