11/02/11

February 14 - love as commodity and pink consumerism - I opened my mailbox and I found a book. Jonathan Livingston Seagull (by one Richard Bach) was left there on 11/02/11 to wait for me for three days. A friend thought I needed a reminder that in order to achieve anything in that crappy life I need to try harder. She also reminded me that I'm a big pussy.

The book stayed on my bookshelf for a couple of weeks before I finally decided to pick it up and read it. Actually re-read it. The first time was eight years ago when I thought that having red hair makes me cool. The time when I thought of two beers as a lot of alcohol; when I wasn't neither a heavy smoker nor a freaking pothead; when I didn't have to shave; when I was still a virgin (all these quite irrelevant).

I thought eight years are enough time to make me read this parable of recycled Zen Buddhism differently. But no. I still think, as my friend said, that the seagull is helplessly romantic. And beautiful.

I am not able to recognize the naive little bastard who was once me when I look at the mirror, but there should be something left, right? I thought of writing a book review for the college magazine but the mission seems impossible to me now. Who is going to write it? The old me, or the new me? Or some future me? Or some non-me.

This is why I'm blogging about it. Because I cannot possibly review this parable. I can only punch the buttons of my vaio - which is what matters. A seagull told me that I have to do what I love, do it as much as possible, develop it, push harder and harder and harder... A little prince told me that essential things are invisible to the eye (now carved in my skin for as long as I live and probably for some time more before my skin decomposes)... And I'm telling myself that not everything is possible, that I will fail at certain things, that I will fail to see certain things... But there is a good chance that I won't fail at everything. Or something like that. Just keep on flying, dude.