It is the next note that makes sense of this note. It is the shift, the transition from one note to the next that makes the melody. If only now exists, if the past is no longer here and the future is just a projection of past experience, what is music? A representation of the…
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I often listen to Max Richter while I write. In his music illustrating Virginia Wolf’s Mrs Dalloway, Richter captures the atmosphere with such majesty. The unyielding rhythm, the drama but also the compassion, the admiration and, above all, the flow. With Richter you never know whether you are dragged or suspended, but you do know…
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Back in Easter I attended a conference in which the speaker cited some quotes from books his father had wrote. The ideas resonated with me, so I looked for the books. After a few days, I realised they were nowhere to be found. All that effort, those ideas, those thoughts… erased by a soft wave…
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I try to remember that I must forget myself, that I, the ego, am only a thought, a perceived object floating in a conscience. That I was but am no more. So, it is true that I have no soul, after all… That everything is perceived in conscience, and I am an object in the…
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I feel I sometimes don’t write because I lack enough words, because my vocabulary is so short, so restricted. If I had more words in my medieval chest, what else would I say with them? Would I be able to describe the beauty that I see, that I hear, that I smell? Would I be…
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Last week I came across a brilliant line in one of the major social networks*. Sometimes, when one of these messages resonates with me and I see so many people sharing, circling a common place in this search that is not a search, it feels that it is not an individual quest, but that it…
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Am I to die, then? – asked the ego. I, the ego, the intelligent mind who carried myself around, walking the unfulfilled path. Am I the only source of suffering? I can see my own spiral thoughts. The categorisation of the classification… Every thought is analysed, conceptualised, labelled and stored. And that is who I…
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(Continues from here) The narrator sits and stares into the darkness. The characters have stopped moving. He picks them up and looks at them as he holds them in his hand. He puts them back on the floor. They looked so alive… more alive than he himself. And yet, here he is. Alive. Sitting. He…
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I think about those writers today. Not about their characters, but as the voice-over, the narrator recounting the inexorable succession of events. I wonder if the narrator suffers more anguish than the characters. If he knows what is going to happen, if he feels he cannot feel as his characters do. If deep down he…
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The Introverted Tree 