marginalia

The most destructive thing one can do for oneself is to seek a compromise in one’s decisions and try to negotiate with oneself. The “I” that is pliable to desires will always sound louder and more persuasive than the true voice of reason. It must not be indulged. It needs to be guided. Guided rationally and thoughtfully.

No one, or only a small part, will appreciate your efforts if they don’t yield results.
Everyone is only interested in the result. Everyone will accept only the result. But they won’t remember it. They will remember failures and setbacks.
And even the smallest setbacks can, in the eyes of many, nullify the greatest results.

We live by inertia.

I wanted to do better, but it turned out as usual.

“…quench your thirst for bookish knowledge.”

It seems this is from Marcus Aurelius’s “Meditations,” written during the reign of the Roman Empire.

I bought his work a couple of days ago, on my way back from meeting an old friend.
I noticed that I read a lot, but I rarely put what I’ve read into practice. I’m just storing up knowledge.
Aurelius’s thought came to me just when I was wondering how to fix it, weary under the weight of the mindlessly accumulated ideas, notes, and quotes I’d pulled from books.

A cool breeze, howling like a seasoned hooligan, burst into the room. It creaked the open window sashes, spun the blades of the turned‑off fan, leafed through the pages of a carelessly tossed book, and, grabbing hold of the curtains, jumped from the windowsill into the bouquet of dried flowers. The dry leaves rustled, the vase swayed heavily and collapsed downward, freeing the top shelf of the bookshelf.
“Step aside!” “She warned in a low voice, shaking her mass of dry curls.
Someone darted to the side, spilling tea; someone slipped to the side, ducked, jumped back.
The stand made of fired clay caught the heavy weight of the vase. It crunched, ringing as it shattered into large fragments.
The wind picked up the fallen leaves of the dried flowers and, pleased with itself, slipped away through the open window.

With the arrival of spring, this city is imbued with the dry scent of dust and smoke. Sometimes it seems to me that coming back here was a futile endeavor. It didn’t change anything. It only delayed the approach of the inevitable downfall we’ve been rushing towards for the past few years. It’s even interesting to wonder how much longer this agony will last and how it will ultimately end. Of course, I’d like to go back and do everything over again. But that’s the main curse of time — it moves only forward.

Given the infinity of time, will two human lives be enough to survive this “temporary” period? Or, as the well‑known aphorism (is it really an aphorism?) says, there is nothing more permanent than the temporary.

I guess it’s kind of scary, if not downright frightening, to give shape to the thoughts that race through my head throughout the day. Even on paper. That’s why I don’t write much. I just push them back and forth, without really focusing on any one of them. And they scatter in different directions, leaving only a long, dark shadow. And it’s unbearably unsettling to be in that shadow.

Today, for the first time in a long while, my morning started with a little exercise. Arching my body comically on the mat in the center of the kitchen, I felt how stiff my body had become over the past four months of inactivity. It was nice to stretch my joints again and loosen my muscles. All that’s left is to repeat this tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that, and in a week, and in a month. Let’s see how long I can keep this up.