the metaphysics of studying

Got up this morning (read:noon) and was struck by a sudden urge to change my life. As this clearly was a sign of something else- I mean I am pretty satisfied with my life- I started thinking about what this could be a symptom of.

Finally understood that it's my room that is wrong. That's why I can't sleep, I can't study and cannot find my inner peace.
I used to be all about the inner peace! Frankly, I can find my inner peace on a crowded train between Zürich and Rome if I have to. (And I've had to).

So, I rolled up my sleeves and got down to business. I must say the result is rather inspiring. My desk is finally facing the window, and right now, with all the snow, it brings me this amazing light which I am pretty sure will energize me even in the darkest hours struggling with derivatives and exponentials. At least that is my deepest wish....

the utopia of studies that I left in Lund. Of course the Spanish dictionaries
and novels look pretty tempting right about now.
And I'd trade my principles of economics for Dante's "Divina Commedia" anytime.
In original 'Italian'.

thinking about people, thinking about snow...

Lately I am thinking- again- about people in my life. People I lost, people that got lost on the way. Or did they lose me? Did I slip away..?

"Some people disappear like snow. Suddenly they just whirl off. They melt away and nobody knows why"

Edvard Munch; "Snevaer i alleén".

I often find myself surprised to find out that people remember me several years after meeting me. It's interesting to think that I can never really know anything about the space I occupy in the mind of others, in the life of others.
When thinking about the past couple of years, so full of changes that I can barely keep track....what determined the experiences was the relation to the people in all those different places.
Somehow I feel like I have been a different kind of sophia in those various stages of my life, the destinations of my journey. And lately I've been thinking that perhaps there was a reason for all that emptiness, and it somehow pushed me to pursuit my real destiny.
And here I am?

I don't really believe that it's all about the journey and nothing about the destination. Sometimes the path is rocky, full of mud or just generally shitty. I'd rather say that it's not the about the Final Destination, but about creating, inventing a whole bunch of destinations in the course of one's life.
And maybe calculate them, put them into a graph and then use them as examples for others.....

microeconomics has officially destroyed my ability to contemplate and engage in personal philosphy.

Stella Mia

it's just not fair to send me pictures like this of my cutiepie when I can't be there to play with her myself.
Can't wait for Christmas :))
There is really no place like home for christmas. cannot understand how people can go on vacation at this time of the year. The whole idea is to sit in the same livingroom as always, decorated as it always was, eating the same things as all those past years and feeling the christmas spirit. Nothing compares.

Stelliiiiiiiiiiis. misssss!

avant que l'on s'attache, avant que l'on se gâche

I always wondered where the connection between two people comes from.
Suddenly it's just there, and everything is different.
It no longer matters so much the words that are said or who you are...just existing creates tension.
/I like the tension, the tension and the spark/

But connection and tension are only symptoms. The real outbreak often bides its time.
The incubation period may vary, and the obstacles are numerous.


I love contradiction. I adore metaphorical allegories and all kinds of writers' tricks.
So it's only natural that I have let myself indulge in this first phase symptom of infatuation.
It makes perfect literary sense.
Sometimes I think our conversations are all double-bottomed.
There is depth in the shallow laughter. In the lightness floats the unsaid.
....and That, my friends, is what will decide.
It will be my cure or my insanity-thrill.

Claudio Magris

Perhaps writing is really filling in the black spaces in existence, that nullity which suddenly yawns wide open in the hours and the days, and appears between the objects in the room, engulfing them in unending desolation and insignificance.

Fear invents names as to distract itself.

The traveller reads and takes note of the names, of stations his train passes through , at the corners of the streets where his footsteps lead him; and he goes on his way with a breath of relief, satisfied with that rhythmic order of nothingness.


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