All this writing, scribbling, babbling, stories, the characters sculpted in thousands of minds and their depressingly illogical, though ridiculously predictable, words and thoughts…

All this empty and pathetic chatter calling itself literature,

the book of life written for millennia for the good of millions of unknown descendants.

Meanwhile, literature shouldn’t fear, it should respond more than narrate, finally flow with the stream of truth rather than the sewers of physiology – simply cleanse. Otherwise, dear readers, it only takes away from you the most precious things: your time, your life.

They say writing requires patience. Why spend so much time telling stories about something that can’t even be a shadow of an answer to questions that lack the power to emerge, and when they do, they are rarely asked anymore?

Of course, there are many books like gems and pearls, within which you can easily pick out crystal-clear sentences or maxims opalescent with forgotten beauty.

And I’m not talking about entertainment literature (waffling was turned into a business a long time ago), but the one truly showcasing the light of the soul and the beauty of existence, aptly called beautiful.

So let’s get to the point. Where there is no wisdom

or philosophy, a simple script of questions may be the answer.

What is most important in the lives of most people? Happiness. As such, however one may name it and whatever measures apply,

and if possible – for free or for a dollar, for the soul, by word of mouth, and if not – then for kajillions.

What is most important for everyone? Conscious or often unconscious fear of death, non-existence, vast emptiness, and silence exists where even the most outstanding ego has no foothold and no support in anything. It is the place where words fail, and only the power of transforming emptiness into fullness and non-existence into existence plays its anthem. In the meantime, there are some faiths, incantations, and religions, words of solace engraved in stones or paper extensions of the non-extendable, tears shed over oneself (their volume is best seen at funerals and depends on the ratio of the deceased’s property to the debts left behind).

Since these are just „somewhat-sophist” tales, and I can’t even hold a candle, heck, I can’t hold anything to philosophy and literature heroes,

and living in a small room I know that I am everywhere and ego is nowhere, and that the chaotic world forces to live pedantically – I prioritize aphorisms over creating a story.

By the way, while formulating this thesis, I’ll allow myself to quote the following (*reference in footnotes)

„Paradise is at your center;

unless you find it there,

there is no way

to enter”

And let me just add:

Only the present cannot be deceived.

Angels do not always have super-white teeth, just like not always have a white wings. But don’t get me wrong: I’m not a fan of black teeth:)

Quietism (by the way, what a beautiful term and word cause means “flowerism” in Polish), stoicism, perhaps even cynicism and Buddhism sometimes become one and merge into a single question. Maybe that’s more like an answer to the question why live meaninglessly and disappear just as meaninglessly? Oof, to finally live freely and peacefully. Nobody arranges life for us and we don’t arrange it for anyone either. As Marcus Aurelius would say:  „a day without a good deed is a day wasted”. Irretrievably. I’ve wasted countless days feeling empty and unfulfilled, but despite working strenuously, I found solace in the fact that my endeavors were for the betterment of others.

Acknowledging the miracle of existence thanks to God or proving the existence of God thanks to the miracle of existence. Something to ponder about.  I’m not a philosopher, so I know that I know nothing… However, I’ve noticed that respected philosophers weren’t always „celebrities”.

You’re afraid to stop, lest you realize how much time is slipping through your fingers in the process. 

Sometimes it seems like it’s your whole life… 

And all it takes is to hit the brakes and get off.

„Happiness walks on busy feet”. It’s never too late. It was supposed to start with A, so: acceptance, anticipation, amnesia:), affirmation, ayurveda, ambrosia, how beautiful. But try not to become a super-holy Narcissist:) And the winners in this tale are those who paid special attention to the word: affirmation. And besides, what do I know about life except what I must know. Without ideology or theory. Alleluia!

Our minds – lonely rocks on the stormy sea, constantly whipped by waves of salty words, but words that are not prayers or tales, 

are always whistled in the wind…

But what would be a tale made of words woven by the wind without rocks? 

What could be more beautiful than a prayer transforming our stony, hardened hearts into lanterns torn from darkness? If life is a sum of chances, could a story be created from random words? Would it not sound like a cacophony of thoughts? Would it not look like a picture made of mismatched puzzle pieces?

Do you ever feel that in the face of a hundred reasons to do something, there’s always that one, usually absurd, reason to put your plan on hold? And it’s not about laziness or a delusive lack of time 

(we usually waste entire years to be a few minutes late for a life opportunity), but rather a premonition that preempting fate and fooling destiny might end up, if not tragically, then at least sadly. I remember such a winter journey through the night and mountains, with the traditional feeling of so-called „time pressure,” or being late to who knows where and for what.  I stop the car at a 24-hour exchange office, which is always empty at this time, and it looks friendly to the person heading where he isn’t yet.  In front of me, only one client, but he exchanges currencies 

from half of Europe into zlotys. Playing with paper money continues, the vision of an evening with a beer 

at the destination is getting unpleasantly blurry. After ten long minutes, filled mostly with not very warm thoughts about the straggler, I handle my affairs and return to the highway to my private heaven: the warmth of the car, music, and the illusory sense of being the master of fate. The eyes of imagination undergo a miraculous correction: 

they see every froth bubble in the evening pilsner glasses…

These magical moments, however, are unfairly short. 

The fog mocking my plans, the dawn not bringing light, the speed similar to a Sunday ride on a dilapidated Chinese bicycle. In a moment, I’m stuck in traffic.  It turns out that 10 minutes earlier there was an accident, triggering a series of subsequent ones. I hear on the radio that there was a huge accident on the highway that I was driving to heaven on. A total of 96 cars were involved, including some of the safest ones that usually give one a sense of freedom on every road. The number of injured people is still being counted; unfortunately, their (or not really their) destiny caught up with several people. Still, a little boy who fell out of a window and flew straight into snowdrifts for several meters is doing quite well. Which of those lists was I supposed to be on – I don’t know… 

I couldn’t remember the face of the straggler from the exchange office anymore. Guides to the core of darkness often change faces and paths to disguise or find balance; elves do it, too. The rivers of happiness and despair flow into the same non-existent oceans, where boats and ships do not sail, yet both turquoise atolls and rocky islands in these expanses are full of castaways.

Ferries between the islands and the shore of consciousness operate rarely and irregularly, and yet some of them sink from an excess of gold, baggage 

and psychoactive substances, despite the long-established tariff of one obol (after the carriers’ strike, the dollar and pound were allowed, 

later even the yuan).

These boats with passengers that do reach their destination (most often it’s the final port of Emptiness) after years of odyssey contain only 

mixed ashes in similar shades of grey –  unhappy winners, rich and hopeful losers. The carriers 

(because of a strike due to the growth of cargo weight unregulated by European standards – the number of carriers had to be increased to two), in the company of rosy-cheeked nymphs, use those ashes to fertilize meadows destined for the field, graceful flowers – angelicas, corn lilies, twistedstalk, Lunaria, narcissus, impatiens, rattle-top, goatsbeards, spider plant, beggarticks, black salsify, frogbits and viper’s bugloss.

In the end, the nymphs bid them farewell before another journey with the words: „Harryony, don’t care about millions or dust and dirt. Just don’t take the kids.”

Not the kids…”

Things found miraculously

Every now and then, I happen upon things I haven’t lost. 

I’m, of course, not referring to items lost by others  – 

those wouldn’t be found,  

but rather stolen or at most – borrowed. 

With a justified fear that fiction doesn’t liberate, I’ll only speak of those occasions 

 when I’ve found so-called ‚lost’ belongings, which I had deemed irretrievable. 

 So, this will be a tale of how some perceive the world of things and how others see the thing-world.

The first case is when a thought is crafted into a sentence, even a fairly successful one, but without any consideration or attachment to the sentence itself.

As for my thoughts, those fowls of the air, I hold the same sentiment for them as I do for a flock of geese flying in a direction only they know or a group of starlings or sparrows that bravely dive into hedgerows 

and thickets of thorny bushes – for chit-chat, 

 just as they dive into the matted fruit trees – for a snack.

Thus, there are fleeting thoughts, which despite their triviality, are tattooed on the neck of Atlas, and a world without them would once again plunge into darkness;  organized thoughts, filling with their material refinement a plate of feta cheese and olives, and a glass of wine, and serving as a riposte  

and tennis smash for numerous, often unaccounted-for bills and innocently blackmailing offers slipping through the mailbox for bad news.

Unknowingly, we wade through these thoughts like barbers through cut hair in hair salons, which now, to emphasize the role of a provocative fringe or perm in the latest history of humanity, are called studios, workshops, or ateliers. 

Obviously, it might be that this thin irony is due to the fact that there’s no need to use these fine abodes, because – bad luck! – my head is no longer graced with hair.

But it’s just these mythical fowls of thoughts, chirping 

or tweeting. And then they fly away.

Once, I thought I had a heart. 

Over time, it turned out  it wasn’t my heart, and perhaps not even a heart but rather a random collection of cells, somewhere, for example, in the pituitary gland, accidentally responsible for compassion, mostly for self-compassion. 

After three supposed deaths, which were believed to be the final and inevitable end, but never occurred, and wouldn’t have changed anything anyway except for minor inheritance complications, something unexpected happened. I didn’t find a treasure or win the lottery,  but I did discover a lost item, like the Ark of the Covenant. It was similar to when I dozed off after drinking red wine on a sunny bench in Saragossa, and the money, which was not lost but thought to be lost and even suspected to be stolen, was found only near Ljubljana. It had been in a forgotten bag, in a pocket that had been cleverly sewn by hardworking women in the sewing rooms of Bangladesh and had not been earning any interest. 

I fold the lottery ticket back in this now beautiful Slovenian village and find such words there – you haven’t won anything, damn it, you’re not here to spout nonsense while aimlessly wandering across the decaying bridge between utopias. I wonder what these thoughts are; I’m not on a vegan diet, I don’t drink more than usual, and I haven’t joined any sect or order. And suddenly, someone, I’d like to meet them, changed things neatly: don’t seek and you shall find, but nothing happens without the Holy Spirit, 

and I walked on the unfrozen, transparent surface of the lake, and underneath I saw crowds of people wading in the bog of unconsciousness.

Joyful processions of Dionysus or Bacchus passed by, and after them, as usual, ego stepped in. 

So ego reproached me: come off it, thanks to me, you’ve screwed so much pussy, gotten drunk, and overeaten – don’t leave me now… 

Fuck off – I just said as a final farewell.

Unconsciousness is not seeing the difference between Tibetan flags in the Himalayas and shreds of plastic bags scrambling on sad trees or cramming 

into the meanders of noble rivers and streams of garbage – the deformed products of our only miraculous civilization. 

Or like an equal sign   between swallows gossiping on electric wires and laundry clips on lines in neglected gardens. By the way, we give a firm Yes to such gardens. 

After all, life is a constant mystery and wisdom treads quietly and leisurely, 

 so that the rushing foolishness cannot notice it.

I consider the first case explained, so without unnecessary moralizing, I’ll move on to the second. 

The word „conscience” is the most hated word in the world, unless it’s collective as „world conscience” or the so-called „social conscience”. Then, according to prevailing ideas, 

 any  war or crime can be planned and carried out. 

Individual conscience is an unnecessary, repulsive entity and somehow still not banned by world jurisdiction. 

 I have a distinct impression that judges have little more understanding for criminals than for innocent people, possessors of any remnants of conscience. 

The reason seems simple – individuals possessing it are inherently enemies of progress, prosperity, and the development of humanity. The concept of „conscience” is a backward, inhibitory creation, throwing sand into the system’s gears. 

If, God forbid, you attach the adjective „clear” to it, it automatically becomes the enemy of every world, saving or perhaps already saved by its laws. 

Whether it’s because a  clear conscience is a more precious metal than gold and a more valuable mineral than diamonds, or because every rogue subconsciously hates his reflection in the mirror, I don’t know. By the way, thankfully, financial advisors or bankers will never read these tales, because a clear conscience is the best-performing capital.

In short, if speech is silver, silence is golden, and actions are titanium and platinum, then conscience is the most valuable since woven from the anxiety of the heart. Then there’s only the heart, and its fragility is as much a myth as the myth that the heart doesn’t need the world, and the world doesn’t need the heart.