What I am thinking now, looking at those closed blinds, what a blasphemous thing to watch in the morning. I am sitting on a mattress and staring at closed blinds. its weired. see that eye lids of the outer realm; it shuts my inner world to keep something overwhelming out, i hope. I stayed five more minutes staring those eye lids, whether i should venture or not out of this inhabit. 

I am not trying to think anything, but thinking happens to me. my mind races through various times—next moments I am praying God—next moments I am thinking about how to do my books’ marketing properly—and the next moment in the same breath I think about fixing the one broken wheel of my revolver chair—a Sisyphean object that resists wholeness (after three weeks of purchase) and yet demands to be used and, yes,  still I am managing to revolve. Irony to safety until I collapse on the floor--mechanical Karma-- says "use me until you fall" but who cares! 

My Blinds

I am trying to catch my thought, every single parameter which I am threading now but I have difficulty catching those thoughts—next I am thinking how galaxy works--spirals of impossible scale-- or, next arrives how Nietzsche became greatest thinker. he stomped my brain like Dionysian strength when I had first discovered him. now he peeking through that blind-lids and questioning me, or demanding--why I haven't created something today. i am trying, i told myself.

Actually I want to write a letter—but to whom? i even look for my remarkable to scrib quickly, but i remember, letters need a reciver, and i hardly decide which worl I belong, do I have a reciver here? My mind still thinking. There is a little bottle, cheap wine, next to my desktop, I thought for a second to grab that, drink it. But I quickly thought it's just 9 in the morning. So my hand went involuntarily to the thick book— Ishaadi Nau Upanishad—Hindi edition. I picked up, It’s always here, like an anchor reminding me the self is older than its moods. On the wall I see my pant is hanging on one loose nail—another acidentel icon of hollowness--seeing that I felt self-disgust, how awful it is looking without me, hollow.

I pull back my eyes to the Upanishad—I love Mahopanishad—but it's not in this edition so I thought to fumble my digital drive—but thought, Alas! I am too tired to walk to the desk either. Everything feels far today, as if distance has mass.I am trying to gather everything from my bed, as far as my hand could reach. Until now, I have—

1 thick book

1 water bottle

1 empty vape

1 wine bottle but I am not planning to drag it near, its not a time to invoke that God so early (so early?, questioned myself, 'when did i start asking such folly?')

So, yes, you see my evereyday inventory, my boredom is crossing my limitations--becoming something metaphysical, like tamas thickening in the room. Should I scream? I even thought for a second but feared I will disturb my flatmate. So I pressed my scream back into my chest. Now I want to open my big balcony window (or door)—room feels too suffocating. I watch my desktop, at corner, to look at the time (I have one wall clock but we decided not to hang it again until… when! Don’t know), it was 12:28. It was already 3 hours being in the bed, sitting at the edge like Oblomov. Even that existential man rarely goes to the table for writing but I am not feeling anything today. I am too shallow and vacant today. even oblomov turned his philosophical-inertia into phenomenology of the weight. what should i turn mine?

“I should play music,” I thought, 

and finally I placed my left leg to the floor. Big step, I thought. 

While sleeping last night I was wondering I would write something today to publish on my Substack but as soon as I awoke I lost my appetite for words. creativity abandoned me, how come! My right leg tried to go back to the floor but I pulled it back and curled it again. And then I watched at my left foot, on the floor, thought “why are you there, my little toes?” i placed my hand upon that thick book, like i am trying to search the answer there. should i flip the page? read a bit? no, i am too tired to flip the pages now. 

My body has never responded to me lately. I remember the line from my own book The Outsider:

That was my chair. Mine. Where I sat, where I melted into the shape of my own fatigue. Cigarette butts? That’s mine too. My knees—complaining, throbbing, gnawing at the bone. How long had I been here? Hours? A lifetime? I could no longer tell if my body was separate from the bench, or if the wood had absorbed me, swallowing my flesh into its stillness. I feared standing. Not because I did not want to walk, but because I did not trust the structure of my own body anymore.—The Outsider.

See, read that? Once (exactly 17 months ago today) that street, curb-side chair swallowed me. I was there, sitting like eternity just like today. I want to stand and go sit on my desktop chair and write or research for my next piece of writing. And even I started my next book few days ago, I outlined everything in one day. Awesome, I thought, when I finished my future-contents.Something is pulling me down. What? Fatigue? Meaninglessness? The heaviness Sartre described when existence becomes too visible, too immediate? I looked at the matress, and tried to convey my immediacy with it but it grabbed my bottom so hard. after thinking too hardm too much, i decided to have my right leg on the floor and walk. 

But what is pulling me down. And I try to recall Oblomov, and think how he used to win this kind of existential war. And suddenly my mind goes off to recall Mr Kant, how is this even possible, I thought. I imagined him walking same street every day for his life, same time. Weird man, I thought. O flanked my arms and said "How did this man of unwavering routine forge universals out of monotony?" inspired or ashmed-- I try to push, I pushed my right leg to the floor, finally after hours of putting my left leg down to the floor I succeeded to put my second leg on the floor. I almost said “victorious” but I thought it would be incongruous to say something like this in this victorious moment.

after five hours i am out of my bed. writing this.