Domena blaženih

Today I once again mastered myself in the art of shadowhand, tenebrae, being invisible. In the art of being informally unnoticed by the people that actually stood there and were talking to me. Sometimes it seems a mere deductive operation, since my predecessors in life, my parents and their parents were trying to be nobody special, I am having big difficulties when my ego, my feeling of the progressive self wants to evolve. And it is actually posing a lifelong quesstion about why should we, our generation, keep on suppresing bright and strong ideas to remain unattacked and unknown.

I meet a girl that I find attractive and then there are many ways of how to find an apology for not approaching her directly. Yes, we talk, but then I think I do not know how to cook, I do not wish for anything else than a strong body commitment, I do not wish to form a relationship in which one depends one the other, etc.

Then I meet a fellow theatre man, whom I regard as highly successful in his strivings for creating his own specific artforms and always "getting there", even if it takes a hefty load of struggling, stubborness and also manipulation. I think that the only reason he talks to me lately is because he has got plans of cooperation, but on a strictly professional, artistic level, he does take no interest in my private self.

After that, I meet a theatre performer with whom I was very enchanted at yesterday's performance, thinking that I have maybe found a new friend, at least in terms of thinking, a new debate buddy, yet I figure out I am of no interest to her, that all the words of praise are there just as a social lubricant in the time where there is nothing to say, because there are too many glances to catch, producers to talk to and important fans to attend to.

What is this world I am living in? The world of hasty decisions of selfishness or a world where only a very narrow focus can prevail and is therefore very self-centered - because it is the only way? Is it a world where people seek eternal life in an art piece which dies when its stage time is over or are we all believing that our stirring of irational spirits can do things beyond our wildest optimism? I do not know, but I intend to find out, and if have to read all the literary fragments available for the radio, dance on the stage, sing on the microfone, act as Richard III, be myself in the service of performative truth, there are many ways but only one of them is destined to be mine.