Я продолжаю терять части... я даже не уверен чего. Тексты пропадают, мысли распадаются на части. Идея записывать что-то прекрасна, но такое чувство, что она выходит из-под контроля. Я не помню, как писал некоторые тексты. Не помню, чтобы моя мысль или я сам доходил до этих точек рассуждения...
"Я нахожу страницы своего дневника исписанные чужим корявым почерком. Они покрыты чужими мыслями, знаниями кого-то, кто отказывается со мной делиться."
Мне следовало бы привыкнуть к тому, что на свой мозг больше нельзя полагаться как на надежного рассказчика. Но от этого сложно отказаться.
Но, с другой стороны, эти "чужие" записи помогают тратить меньше времени на хождение вслепую.
Запись 1:
What is the story? It is a series of events, or, to be precise, changes. There things that change within the story, and things that remain the same, in order to make the change apparent in others. Story is impossible without change, and if you see no change, that means you do not see the entire story, or there is no story to see. And even if everything within the story itself remains the same, if change does not happen or it comes full circle, thus making the starting point and the destination one and the same, ask yourself: did the writer change? Or did the reader? Because while it is rarely fair to bring this up, the story does involve both the writer and the reader, even if usually their participation is omitted in polite silence.
No writer can fully become part of the story he writes, just like the reader remains a reader and not a participant. For if they could, they would no longer be writer and reader but characters. All our life we turn our existence into the stories. Stories we tell ourself, stories we tell others, stories where we can even be a secondary characters, but stories non the less. We are able to do so because even if part of us participates in the story, we are not just this part, we are more. We see more, and thus we see the story we are part of. If there is a story that involves us completely, we can not see it, just as we can not look at ourselves without a mirror. Some say that only God can create a story where he is both the author and a character, but we do not know what he sees when he tries to look at the story he created. Some say our entire world, from beginning to end is just a story God wrote about himself.
Запись 2:
In the center of our relationship with stories lies a paradox. The moment we find ourselves part of one, we rebel, and try to escape it. We never want to settle for being mere characters, we never want something else to define us, never want someone else to be the author. Yet when we tear ourselves free, escape the prison and confinement of the story we were part of, we find ourselves robbed of meaning, because we are no longer defined by something else, and are cursed with inability to define ourselves, to write ourselves into our own stories.
When we are writing a story, there is one trick we are unable to pull off. We always remember that we are the ones who wrote them, and no matter how deep we dive into the stories, in the back of our minds we always know that these are our stories, our lies. That is the key conflict, the unwillingness to be defined by something else and inability to define oneself. And so we keep running towards others to seek ourselves, to ask them for our names, that should define and bind us according to the legends we once read, yet hearing them we halt, unable to comprehend their nature, unable to understand why do we want to rebel, only to surrender to that impulse and push our authors-to-be away, to escape definition and seek freedom from what we desired so much just a few moments ago. An infinite cycle.
But is there a way out? A way to end the cycle? Can we allow ourselves to be defined by others and not rebel, or can we define ourselves without the ever present doubt? Or is there another way?