Collecting Thoughts.

And yet, and yet … Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Our destiny is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and ironclad. Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along. but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.

I want to know about the things going on in the world, and be an educated participant in society

We exchanged glances, she in her turn, from the other side of the cafe table, I in mine. I didn’t like her. It was something about her nose, or her eyes, her smile, her way of speaking, her whole face verging onto sheer cheek. Apparently she didn’t like me either. We couldn’t help but look at each other, as if in each of us there were a deeply unpleasant, blind parasite, staring in fascination at its mate, guffawing and laughing, grotesquely in love, leering shamelessly up through our faces as if through a periscope (in spite or precisely because of its blindness). Luckily I managed to keep my mouth shut until I left. Or was it a mistake? It’s this kind of dilemma that gives you the feeling of a life like a little piece of lint in your pocket, unfulfilled, regardless of what you do or fail to do.

and now we return to...................................