Middle of May

Yesterday I wrote about a thing for the first time. About something outside of me. About a text. About words. I had read the text. Rather, I wrote while reading. Write while reading. I wrote while reading. I wrote about something that was inside me. What I had been reading now is inside me. By reading the text, it became a part of me.

By looking at something, consciously perceiving it, it becomes myself. You are what you read. You are what you eat. You are what you see. I consist of the mother, of the milk, of the book — no: of the text. I consist of what I saw, what I see. I am made of the world. I consist of the part, of the parts of the world that I meet. I am the world. I am the part of the world I meet. Is the world also ME? The mother, the milk, the text, what I saw. Who I don’t see, the text I don’t read — what I’m not connected to, what I don’t associate with — doesn’t become part of me, it doesn´t become substance of myself. Or only indirectly. I see you, you see someone else. What you have seen becomes you. Once I see you, you become me — and so does the other. That’s generic, that doesn’t matter. But it’s true, it’s right.

Only: Where is the limit. And what is the limit. Rather: At what point does the transformation happen in such a way that it is no longer significant? You are your mother, just as I am my mother. You are a text that you have read, just as I am a text that I have read. You are an image you have seen. Just as I am an image that I saw. And you are part of me because we live together. I am a part of you because we live together. A couple, a family — this is the closest entanglement, the most closely interwoven, intertwined group of MEs. I am what I read. I am my family. Better: I am the people of my family. I am also your father. You are also my mother.

The distance increases. The traces become more difficult to read. But the traces are there, even if they can no longer be seen with the naked eye. There is no limit. Impressions, traces may differ in depth. There are blurred traces, traces that are no longer visible. Traces that have disappeared. They are outside of perceptibility. And that’s it, it’s the so-called limit: perceptibility.

What I don’t read is not part of me. If the traces can no longer be perceived, then there is no longer a connection. Then it’s not me. Who I do not see and whose traces are not visible in me, he or she does not become a part of me.

When I look away so as not to see someone, looking away becomes part of me.

I think, sense. Look at the paper. What is happening here? It is: wanting to understand the world. It is: wanting to understand myself. This is philosophizing. That’s probably how it started. Someone looked closely and talked about what she saw. What she thought was written down. Or rather: It was written without thinking. It was only later that it was thought. In conversation. And when rereading what has been written. Every text that has been written in this way is a piece of world knowledge, philosophy. But philosophy is not to recognize the world. Philosophy is recognizing wisdom. That is something different. That is not my topic either. Recognizing wisdom is not why I write. ME. Recognizing me, that’s the reason.

I do egosophy. Only that “ego” is Latin and “sophie” is Greek. Autosophy. Friendship to the Self. That describes well what I am looking for. I have to look at the search engine briefly: Is there an ancient Greek word for “I”? Because “self” is something else. “Self” is an object. en.glosbe.com shows: “εγώ”. Is that “ego”? I suspect, hope, that “εγώ” is a back translation from Latin. Egosophy sounds too much like egoism, selfishness. Autosophy sounds too abstract. It refrains from the ME and instead sets “itself”. On the other hand, “self” is not bad. I’m not quite sure what that is, what the difference is between”self” and “I”. In any case, there is a difference in temperature. “I” is warmer. “Self” is cooler. Don’t be so selfish. Word of the parents.

Keep writing. Even if there is emptiness, even if there is a corridor of thoughts coming to the end, when it has stopped flowing. Endurance. Perseverance. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Keep writing.

Bird songs. Car noise.

I hear you handling in the apartment.

It’s already late. 8:27am.

I am shocked. I feel it physically, in the left side, in the chest. No pain. Mor like a shudder just under the skin. It also had a movement. Now it’s gone. Or rather: it has changed. Slowly a pressure develops in the middle of the chest. Stress. Because I have a conflict. Around 9:00am I have to work, I have to be available to my employer. And before that, I still have to have breakfast. And before that, I want to finish writing the third page. Still to the middle of the back of this sheet.

The decision is clear: I write. That feels good. But the pressure remains. The justified demand of the day. Writing at the expense of others. Exploring egosophy. Writing in the early morning has the advantage that it is only in competition with sleep. And today I slept for a long time. Longer than usual. To assert myself in writing against other interests than against sleep: this will be the next level. No enforcement. But a self-evident choice. A choice in freedom. Not only stop the circling in the head by getting up and writing. But also end the circling of everyday life by getting up and writing.

I’m unsure if writing is the only way to be free.