Voltaic Arc

“Haven’t you ever asked yourselves why some people want to die,” Anatoly turned himself to an elderly couple sitting nearby, “is it not because they have deviated from their project, is it not because they have parted ways with their true themselves!? Is it not because their ‘I’ has died and only their Ego is alive!? … But how…” The voice of Anatoly trembled suddenly and trailed away: “… But how could one not separate from oneself, when, in some cases, if one is human, one must go against one’s human nature; if one is sane, one needs to lose one’s saneness!… Haven’t you felt as if your souls are held with pliers, yet not with the usual kind of pliers that are used to press things together, but the expanding ones… pliers that expand your souls so much that you can feel the pain of it, that you want to become once again plain of soul, once again inconsiderably small, yes, once again, like at the time back then when you used to be happy, yet you can’t… yet you can’t!…”

Adoriel locked his eyebrows, yet his face didn’t express pure coldness or harshness, as Anatoly would logically expect it to, but a peculiar blend of unyielding firmness and empathy.

“I mean that these pliers are hot! They aggravate the inner conflicts of anyone whom they happen to catch in their hold. They aren’t made of jaws, they are made of electrodes: the one goes into your heart, the other one goes into your brain, and then the current goes on until you faint!… The one is red and hot — like the breath of blood, like the feverish talk of passion, like the longing of wrath; the other is black and cold — like the dress of the night, like the water of a well, like the embrace of the soil… and the voltaic arc!… the voltaic arc between the two makes you believe things a sane man wouldn’t believe, and makes you doubt things a sane man wouldn’t doubt… Can you imagine…” Often, when it happened to Anatoly to feel embarrassed by something — including a topic he had brought up out of carelessness or mistake — in his panic he would try to shift the focus from this topic to the first thing that would occur to his panicked brain, as inadequate as the child of panic could possibly be. “… Can you imagine that there is a place high up in the mountains where a kin of old men live, with white hairs, with white beards, with red flames burning in their cunning eyes… who keep playing a game of chess that never ends — hidden there, in a place that no human eye can penetrate, a marble castle among the rocks — and keep ruining the lives of all those beneath… Yes, maybe this is the reason why the yogi masters live in the Himalayas — in order to be out of the reach of their magical powers!…” Anatoly’s eyes were sparkling with the naive devilish candour of a child.

(from “The Unsettling Love-Hate Story of Bewildered Anatoly”)



A human entity by the name of Eleonore enters the room. There she finds another human entity by the name of Peter.
“What are you doing here alone,” she asks.
“I have some things to contemplate on, solitude helps.”
“Why not leave this for later, when you’ll be alone anyway, there is a party in the other room.”
“It won’t be the same; to be alone when there is no other option is not like choosing to be so.”
“You are being weird, I must say.”
“You might be right, I must admit — at least considering the present reference framework.”
Eleonore probably acquires an emotion of some kind; her eyebrows cross each other and remain so as she exits the room. Peter remains seated. His eyes also express emotion, but unlike Eleonore’s, his appears to be of rather melancholic nature. He sighs. It is not clear why. Neither is clear whether the subject of his thoughts is the same as prior to Eleonore’s entrance into the room.
In the adjacent room, a number of human entities remain engaged in rhythmical motions that come to showcase agility and exuberance. Male human entities appear more outgoing and willing to interact. One of them shows willingness to interact with Eleonore specifically. She, however, doesn’t appear to reciprocate. She appears less involved now — both motion and emotion-wise — in the festive activities that are taking place in her immediate proximity. She is being non-compliant with the present reference framework. It can be assumed that the change has occurred in the wake of her instance of communication with the other non-compliant human entity.

The Paradox of Trying to Express the Inexpressible

If your experience is truly unique, you’ll want to use a unique language to express it — in order not to let it mix with messages written in conventional code, i.e. messages conveying non-unique experiences — but if your language is unique indeed and thus adequate to its purpose, it will be actually inadequate to its purpose, since you will be the only one able to decode it, which makes no sense if the point of sending your message is to see it reach someone other than yourself.


Blind Love

is love that makes you happy;
unhappy love will make you

Yubiinu lil3ayni


If a Dog Pees the Name Of…

(or the paradox of the other dogs’ names’ peeing dog)

If a dog pees the name of another dog on a tree, whose tree would it be — of the dog who peed on it, or the dog whose name was peed on it?


The Twig

And then there is that broken-off twig, lying at a place where I would or would not expect to see it but anyway I find myself staring at it and that makes me think about the process of my staring at it, or I find myself focused on the twig itself and, paradoxically, that makes me unaware of the twig itself as it only reminds me of a dead sparrow I’ve seen just before that, or a few days ago, and I think about the death of beasts and men and how good an end it is made to be to a life that is made to have no end but is woven out of misery and madness, so I don’t even see it even though I am staring at it, and I start when I realise that I may look so indeed not only to myself, and that someone else may have been staring at me, taking advantage of my staring at the twig, and that that someone, unlike who he stares at, has been focused on who he stares at for the whole duration of his effort which, like that of my own, must have been not little at all.


Why I (Used to) Prefer Reading Dictionaries to Reading Fiction

Yes, you got the title right. Especially in the past, I used to find much greater joy in reading some Arabic (for instance, but not only) dictionary to reading books in that or in some of the other languages that I can read (Bulgarian, German, and most recently, English). I used to like to combine that with reading grammar books — this time I mean Arabic specifically. Because, if you like a language to a degree amounting to adoration as I used to like Arabic, even the finest of poetry ever written in it would not cut it. You will want to go to the very bottom of it. To understand how that language functions, from the patterns for creating meanings to the magic of syntax. And based on that, to shape your own complex of leanings.

So, I used to like dictionaries more than the books they are supposed to help me read and understand better. Thus far, this may sound like an idiosyncratic oddity. However, more interesting is one of the reasons for that infatuation — dictionaries were able to stir my thought and imagination more than the books of fiction.

Ideas can be derived from words’ meanings because words exist because of people’s need to name objects and notions. Thinking about the names of objects and notions, however, didn’t stop there for me — it made me think about the essence of those very objects and notions, it made me meditate on them in a very personal, uninfluenced way.

All that matters is a thing’s potential to evoke thought, provoke a non-basic reaction and cause awareness of some of its various kinds. A thing is only good if it’s good as a trigger. If a book of fiction can fail to give me that, a dictionary would readily offer me all of its words, placed in an unbiased order, waiting to be explored and re-arranged to my liking.

The paradox is, the better you understand words, the less you need them. The place to which they serve as a mind’s best guide is a place in which they become of no real value.