Мина за скръбта и пейките по гарите. Документални филми.

Може ли човек да страда за нещо ( или някого ), ако не го е имал?

   

   От този въпрос често съм си вадила извода, че хората мислят твърде двуизмерно или не мислят въобще, но не биха отказали малко публично внимание.

   Да, казвам аз. Не само, че можем да страдаме за такива неща - целият свят днес страда точно от такава прикрита депресия. Смятам, че нещото, по което чезнем, често е колкото важно материално, толкова и мечтано. Знаем, че има твърде много песни и филми за мечти - сбъднати или не, знаем колко важни са те.

   Страданието е нещо поглъщащо, промъкващо се скришом. Не усещаме първите симптоми на тъгата. бягаме наляво и надясно по емоционалните нишки, докато изведнъж припознаем състоянието си в името тъга. Заплитаща, усукваща, докарваща до халюцинации тъга. 

    Защо едно изоставено дете да не може да страда, че няма семейство? Защото никога не е имало?! Това достатъчно убедително ли е - да погледнеш едни мънички устенца, личице, неопитно колкото света, и да кажеш : "Няма защо да чувстваш жалост. Ти нямаш майка и баща.  Затова гледай просто напред, не мисли, не чувствай и не говори!"  Добре, да предположим, че някой злостен НЕчовек изкаже горенаписаните НЕсъвети. Какво? Нима човешката природа просто се включва и изключва? Мечтата за обятия, за рамо, на което детската главица да се облегне, няма да напусне подсъзнанието, даже и ако даваме на съзнанието друга работа. 

   Я, да видим и един друг вид скръб. Наскоро гледах документален филм на Крис Захариев ( също познат като ThatBoyChris в YouTube ). Добрич. Добрич и тъжните, зашеметяващи истории на група хора. Съзнателната радост от подслона им днес. Надежда от добрина. Тя не се ражда просто от ръжта по полето. Всеки, който е изпитал онази вълна на обнадежденост след едно неочаквано добро, знае защо я изпитва. Чувствата, мили учители по литература, не    се обясняват със сложни думи, към които вие имате афинитет. Ох, "-тта"!  Онези хора,   анонимни днес или познати утре, всички са изпитали тъгата по дома. Онзи дом, който са виждали през декемврийските нощи - топъл, малък, здрав и сигурен - е лицето на тъгата. Да, скръбта от това, че нямате мечтаното, оживява в сънища, представи, мечти, песни или думи. Когато сте сами под някоя тераса в студена вечер. Или докато пътувате сред десетките хора до вас. 

   И всичко това е красота. Красиво е да страдаш в свят на сънища; красиво е да виждаш нещо, което не е там; красиво е да създаваш, за да излееш това, което не проумяваш. Красиво е да страдаш в побелелите сутрини на пейката отляво на гарата, под дървото с мартениците. 

   Красиво е. 

   Б.Т.Р.  пеят за нея, която има дарба да превръща хора във вещи със сърца. Тъгата. За нея пеят, знам. Тя сковава. Тя не позволява да бягаш назад или да кажеш "Значи нещо." Тя сковава всяка струна на душата. да рисуваш, да крещиш или да тичаш; плачеш, пишеш, свириш, говориш, чувстваш надежда от доброто - всичко е присъщо на човека. Не на предмета. Хората изпитват, но променят. Предметите изпитват. Просто изпитват.  

   Мразя твърдението, че хората не страдали, ако говорели за това. 

   Просто казвам.

   Вие говорите.

   Аз пиша. 

   Обаче не където трябва. Не всеки умее да говори или да пише за това, когато или където трябва. Аз не умея.

    Undisclosed Desire и Time Is Running Out в едно. Интересно, фенове на Muse, не мислите ли?

   Важен Послепис : 

    Скъпи читателю,

    Ако си обърнал внимание на част от аргументацията, значи си разбрал, че в Добрич наистина съществува реален център за временно настаняване на бездомни хора. Моля, посети този линк, за да се запознаеш по-нагледно с темата. Ако проявяваш човешки интерес, разбира се.

"Покрив" от Крис Захариев


   Ако искате да помогнете на хората, които поддържат или живеят в центъра, можете да видите координатите му в описанието под клипа.
   Благодаря ти, читателю!
   Благодаря и на теб, Крис!

Стенли и когато си обсебен

Спомен с лъжа се оплита,

залез, пак, сама, в гора

Губя се, както днес отлита

и начало ново - цигарена зора.

Тежък дим с думи мъчни

сливат устни във целувка,

сън на опасения жлъчни

Всичко е на всуе, за преструвка

Колко струва погрешната ми дума?

Месец? Два? Кошмар и болест?

Нощ и дене забрава за ума,

дихание на секундна горест

Очаквам.

Денят ще се смени в нощта,

красотата в истинно затишие ще умре,

в на пойна птица песента,

сърце от камък, на славей без криле

Очаквам.

Добре е, че си там.

Чудя се от ден или от два,

дали седи до тебе сам

листа на една игра.

Между пръстите на днес

   По дяволите.

   Знаете ли какво се случва, когато думите ви са умрели?... Умрели като ноемврийските листа на задната улица. Мъртви като баба си, която помните, но си е отишла преди много време, оставяйки ви само със няколко приказни саги и думи, които сте забравили, защото не сте ги разбрали. Ето толкова мъртви. И няма да оживеят никога.

   Думите ви са толкова изстинали в гробовете си във всяка социална мрежа или тъпо признание или безсмислена песен или в устата на някоя перхидролена чанта, че чак не можете да намерите сила да ги въздигнете със собствените си уста. Знаете какво усещате, какво изпитвате, но думите, с които да го изразите, са изхабени и захвърлени навсякъде. Твърде загубили смисъла си. Думите.

   Какво мислите, че правите? Искате нещо просто. Искате да изразите себе си, честно, неподправено и пълно, но най-точните думи вече са заети от глупави асоциации, метафори и всякакви простотии. И толкоз. Аз ли ще обърна света и значението на думите, мислите си. Мисля си и аз. Всяка искрена и проста дума, която означава каквото означава ( Платоне, можеш да заплачеш точно тук, сега )  е заета. Е убита. Е натоварена със други значения и възприятия. Каква е тая глупост?!?, казвам аз. Каква?

   Човек съм. Обичам буквите. И книгите. И думите във тях. Но ( ето го това "но" ) думите не са еднакви. Думите са емоции, усещания и желания. Думите са боите и нюансите, четките, платната и разтворителите на един художник. Думите са като бензина за колата ви - нямате бензин - не отивате никъде. Как прехвърлят метафорите и асоциациите тъй лесно? Къде е леля ви Ленче от пейката пред блока да ви каже адекватното и направо препоръчително "Вие срам нямате ли бе?!?" Как съсипвате всяко чувство, обстановка и какво ли не още само с безполезното постване на снимчица на рози с цитат от някой автор за когото , често, даже и понятие си нямате?

    Красотата на един поп свят. Метафори и адекватност - комбинацията, която никога няма да пребъде.

Значението на детайла, снимка на Мина Константинова

    Това не би трябвало да е назидателно слово. Само искам да ви кажа как се чувствам днес. Днес бих искала да ви споделя как сънищата ми и дните са преплетени в една вманиаченост, как бих искала да се разсея с който и да било грях или негрях, само и само да изоставя тази мисъл. Обаче днес, всяка дума, подходяща да опиша мисълта си, е заета от глупостта на съвремието или пък от високи промисли чрез простите няколко думи, които бих искала да изрека. Честно, хора, стегнете се, защото вече ми омръзна всичко да е свързано с любов, снимки на пушеци в Тъмблър и някакви постхипарски, полухормонално неадекватни изблици.
А за останалите, благодаря, ако четете това. Благодаря, ако не го четете. Благодаря, ако пишете или пък ако нямате какво и затова не го правите. Благодаря, че се борите най-доброто средство на един съвременен естет да оживее.

До непостналите подобни простотии:
Вие сте спасители на времето си и на думите във него. Спасявате думите от загуба на своето значение.

Ако някога го прочетеш

Ако някога го прочетеш.... Знай!
Скърбя за всеки чифт очи.
Скърбя за всеки поглед.
Скърбя за всякоя си дума.
Скърбя за всичката съдба.
Скърбя.
Наистина.
И плача.
И не заради подлост,
Ум,
Коварство...
Плача.
Не заради чувства.
Не заради дъжд.
Не заради лудост.
Съжалявам... И просто плача.
Съжалявам за погледи и думи.
Съжалявам, че сравнявам.
Сравнявам очи.
Сравнявам съдби.
И скърбя.
Не заради подлост.
Не заради лудост.
Не заради страст,
А просто плача.
А просто чакам
И скърбя.

The Cycling Cycle

We all cycle in a way. Yep. We do. When we are little we are eager to get our first bicycle thrills. We are taught how to do it. And we do it. It's not easy at first, then  we got used to it and the difficulty becomes a lifestyle.
Next stage : you are a teenager and would like to feel like teenage films characters - cycling through the city, freely and carelessly of anything in this world ( but too deep as a person in a film, of course). And you do - you continue cycling but now you try new routes. You try pathways running through the forest, outside the city streets and so on. You want to be amid the life but not exactly into it, you want some time for yourself only. And you experiment with a bike and yourself. That's the transition period of falling down, losing equilibrium and getting on our feet again and again. The beautiful scenery meanwhile can be considered an advantage, too.
Post-teenage phase: what happens? You are tired of cycling on your own. You are bored by your nature and want to share the sight of a hill over there with someone that loves bicycles too. And you perhaps can have a chance to find such a person. You start cycling together. You may change it. Or several times. Or not. Mhm. Then you need to buy new bicycles.
The tutor period: you have children. Congrats! You teach them. They get their first bicycle experience. It's strange to see yourself again but somehow modified. Yep. And they took off to outside the city routes where they fall and find new people.
It's damn strange cycle, huh?!

The Zodiac Prejudice: The Railways ( Part 3 )

I'm cold as a match 

Ready to strike...

- FF

Well, Maggie got to the station. Otherwise the story would've lost its sense. Sam was sitting on a bench, staring through his glasses. Maggie stopped for a second. She was curious to know. She wanted to see what he could see. What could he see through his eyes? How did he feel about it? What was amazing, astonishing, disappointing, sad, lithle, childish, remarkable, beautiful, intriguing? What did he see?

She went on, stumbled and stepped by his side. Taken aback,he looked at her for a second, then gazing in the nowhere ( again ) said:

"Have you noticed that railway lines wave in for certain length, then split and continue in two parallel lines?"

She looked at the far division.

"Yes, you are right," she blinked, "I haven't noticed."

"Sit " he smiled at her.

Further on, they talked about little things, big things, films and songs, bands and theoretical physics, literature and trivia awkwerdness. She calmed down. He was calm.

Then Maggie asked:

"Do you know that everything has a beginning but has an end too?"

They kept silence.

"You are not right. You need to change the sentence. You need to twist it for such an unfortunate truth deserves the solace of ostentatious beauty."

"And how should it sound?" Maggie asked.

"Rather... The beginning of an end is far less the value of the mean. What do you think?"

"Too complex. Complexity sucks."

"Ok, radical."

He gazed at the nothing again.

"What would you say about ... Between the beginning and the end is all we call impractical. Impractical is what matters."

Maggie feverishly looked for a hidden message that meant he did not like her. She failed to find it.

"Yes, I like it more that way."

Sam smiled and gazed at her face. This time his glasses were all in her direction. She could read them. At least, she decided to believe what she saw. She decided for once not to let strong sense overtake the beauty of probable illusion. She wanted to believe and so did she. Just let go and answered his gaze with a look full of simple complexity, beautiful anxiety and passive desire. 

Still looking at her eyes, Sam mumbled mumbled:

"So you share my lck of pragmatism?..."

She sighed a yes.

They kissed and continued tracing the railway lines and routes together.

What happened afterwards? I can't really give an answer to this question. It is not my story to follow it. Then Maggied and Sam followed the railways but today may be the beginning of an end... Or it could have been yesterday. That is how trivial life becomes unique to some - they need just to let go and quit planning. Others, though, need planning the next second or they quit life. The trivial ending is the perfect beginning of a story - it evokes the collision of simple and complex.

What more?!

The Zodiac Prejudice: The Yoghurt of My Thoughts ( Part 2 )

The trivial ending of an episode is not necessarily a flaw. It actually tests one's prejudices to literature, one's actual interest. Well, same cannot be stated for life. Life is too trivial and basic in its pop form that a trivial ending of an episode could be deadly.
Right from there, the smelly gym, Maggie went in Maths class. It was time of thoughts for her lacked of logical principles nature. As long as test was not on schedule, she could afford the splendour of 'utilizing' time not the best way. Or was it the best? So stepping still nervously in the classroom she met the curious eyes of little nasty people deprived of the virtue not to intrude.
She sat on a chair and opened the book randomly. The time to think  had come.
Pulling the sleeve of her shirt, anxious of what she was to do. To judge. To judge upon the many possible prejudices one can think of. Wrong word. Too short to be tall enough. Too unromantic. Too romantic. Not smart. Smart enough. Pisces? 1995? Why? Too old. 1998. Too young?
Maggie realised she was on her way to evaluate people and, unfortunately, that was her ultimate hate. Plus sexism in Game of Thrones. She started looking through options. Were there any choices she could skip making? Just like in computer games - you skip the reference part and then fight for your life as hard as possible. Hardly had she begun her brain-racking campaign when the teacher walked in. Everyone stood up.
"Good morning."
"Good morning." came as a declaration of indifference.
They sat once again. Maggie started  digging through the plot of every book she had chucked away under her bed. Alas, she couldn't recall a title of zodiac, sociology and love.
Love ?
Since when has I become love?!
Misunderstanding. Mixture of impressions. Confusion of definitions. That was it. She had to read Pride and Prejudice once again. There must have been something that could find its significance these days.
The conclusions of the by-gone day were as follows:
1) You need some rest!
2) Don't hesitate to stop resting. Think, damn!
3) Buy yoghurt.
4) Call Sam... Yes, do it!
It was her who got home by train.b she couldn't see him there. He was not on a daily shift now. All she wanted in order to come back in peace was simply see him.
It was not love. Love embodies the unknown depth in a single definition.
"Aerosmith will definitely help!"
3 songs later: Fuck! Nothing helped.
Maggie decided to remain anxious as she felt differently. And different needed to be observed. Interstellar put this question: if you notice something new, observe it, describe it, declare its natural laws. So Maggie did the same - kept the phenomenon for as long as she could.
On her pillow, at 23:43, she was still into thoughts about judging, Sam, Pride and Prejudice , Sam, zodiac, Sam. Obviously, it was his turn to disturb her unknowingly. She hoped, secretly and with certain worry that her figure disturbed him too. Unknowingly. She felt asleep.
The next morning Maggie woke up. Above, there in the semi-night sky, the moon was hanging. It was pouring with silver upon everything. She got up. Sam wasn't on the train. It was Friday. She wanted to see him. Just to talk. Talk about anything...
That day Maggie avoided any looks and talks of little importance. It turned out to be avoiding everything. Full of tension, though denying it to herself, she waited for her phone to ring. Maggie truly wanted to see him; just an hour with him... She could well pass beyond any prejudice. Hardly had her phone rung till the last class. Eventually, it did. A message:
Hey! The station. 3 o'clock?
- S.
A wave of sweet relief passed through her.
I'll be there.
- M.
Maggie, dreaming of the forthcoming, did care little about conscious reality. Walking down the boulevard, she listened to James Bay's Hold Back the River . The bustling now of the somehow affecting her. From where she started, a mess, a ball of confusion, a kiss bringing too many questions, now she felt relief of simplified image. Planning could not find ots place in her image. Having realised for a moment how superfluously overrated planning was, she decided to let herself on the flow. How trivial could an ending be?! You haven't seen yet.

The Zodiac Prejudice : The Pisces Issue ( Part 1 )

"And he is Pisces?! What? Are you nuts?!"
It was the voice of school girl that irritates the innocent walls of the gym. A blonde in her ethno dress was too worries about a friend's astrological match. Obviously, she didn't bother to involve as much audience as possible.
"Shut up! Come on, I don't want everyone to know, " said the object of probable Pisces madness, " Let's go to the cafeteria."
Walking out of the gym, the smell of communal sweat left behind and fresh air came in. God bless the process of glucose synthesis!
As passing through the sad yard, they met people. People of any kind, of any zodiacal sign or of any appearance. As reality reflects everything, it is a hard task for one to notice the main in the reflection; among the graceful shine of Sun in her hair or the deep look of his ocean eyes, the fireplace of their eyes or the musical smile of friends' it is a complicated task to outline the main prejudice you would like to dedicate yourself to. Please, don't deny your dedication to a prejudice. The truth is everyone has a prejudice to judge others according to. But this is just a story. Right?
By a window, down the hall, the blonde and the mad were quietly discussing the globally insignificant question of a crush. They deformed it over and over again, putting it in and out of different aspects. Although a teenage discussion isn't something to impress the old generations, the newly risen topic of zodiacal compatibility. Hundreds of  years old statistics successfully receives a trivial character nowadays. How ironically practical. So how would it be possible for a Pisces to fall for Sagittarius? Was it serious? Interpretation is all one can count on as there is nothing more to be counted on in these cases.
"So you are saying he is kind of cute?"
"Mmh, yes. I don't like the word cute. He is ... Impressive."
"I still can't understand how you get to like a  Pisces?"
"Hey!!!"
"What?"
"Stop classifying people... By your damn zodiacal bullshit."
"Why? It is true. It is statistics. Long-termed. It is still going on. And I am sticking to it."
"Man, come on! You are not right! Pisces or Cancer or Moncer - it is meaningless."
"There is no Moncer in the zodiac " the blonde cut out.
"Why?! You say so! A fucking guru says so! It is a damn scale, " she jumped from her chair, " for evaluating people before even asking them if they liked cheese!!!"
The dark-haired ( sp far known as "she" ), Maggie, walked out of the cafeteria angrily enough to grab some attention. As usual, confused eyes fell at her friend.
Why would anyone be judged before even knowing them? It is a degradation of humanity. That's how Maggie considered all kinds of factors that affected one's opinion beforehand.
"It's a total shit!" she whispered while walking across the yard. She was not a stupid girl, therefore she knew people can't be perfectly good. They have preconceived opinions built on judgements. Prejudices vary - beauty or not, smart or not, rich or not, the right zodiacal sign or not, easy or not... There's no moderate level - either you are or you are not. You want to make friends with an all-about-metal peer? Are you all-about-metal or not? You like one's voice. Are you in love or not?!
It is a world of prejudice, yes. I want to kiss you but you have the preconceived idea that kissing is only a form of showing your deepest love. I want to cut my hands. You pre-judged me - you think I am a psycho. You listen to The Smiths, I to Muse. We are freaks, together in the prejudice, right?
Maggie pulled the locker of hostile green metal and took a bar of chocolate. Sat and ate it. The smell of sweat was excluded now. She vividly remembered last night - how she had walked down the lane with him, had gone to the regatta zone, had sat on a bench. They had talked little of everything they could share. Confusion. Tension in a peaceful manner. A release of laughter. Then they had kissed. Like hell. Who of them gave a shit about zodiacal signs under each others trembling fingers?! Little did they care. Actually, how can one have prejudice?
If being objective, one can't judge something without experiencing it because they don't know its true value and reason. The connotation of good and bad nowadays is too flexible. A prejudice can be a past event, not a judgement.
And so on . They had kissed. They had got home. It was a past event. Could Maggie have prejudice now?
What for?!
Did she have such?
The bar of chocolate had gone.

The Love Gathered in a Mix Tape

Love is a matter of eternal questions. Yes. There is no right definition. Love is just love. And when love meets music, what happens? Do we collect the love into our most memorable songs or love fills the moment of the song and later on it is past?  Or do the music keeps the love sounding into the void ?
Recently I've read Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield. It is an amazing book! Undoubtedly! Definitely! It is a life woven into string, songs and remarkable non-turns. Every chapter welcomes with a list of songs taped. I asked myself. What is it about? Is it about life? or is it about love? Or love to music? Is there a clear answer for my vision? No.
Love is a happening. Love is not an object or subject. But neither is music. It is a soul. Strangely, non of us realises how amusing can  Difference be before living through it. For example, how different love can be from in love? If you have been in loved, you can undoubtedly remember a song or two that marks your crush. Oblivion by Bastille is a sample in terms of my crush. It was a long-time crush dedicating me to total obsession with this song. The song now reminds me of these September days during which I waited. Just waited to meet a pair of eyes. Not this piece of music is a reminder and carries my story. But... Is it the story that marked the song or the song marked my story?...
These questions raised while I was reading the book. If I was in loved once and now I just listen to these songs what will happen? Metaphysics can't really help here, huh? It is more of a component than a solution. The author says that if you gather all your mix tapes in one place, you'll get the story of your life. It is a brilliantly said truth. Spoken out loud. I often think of summarising my story so far, but I am not sure if some time later my story will receive a totally different meaning.
Can we say our musical history can be taken into new aspects? Is I possible to change our so-far history only by a single sip of coffee at the station?!
There are so many questions about love and music and history. They ate actually too much. The one thing that Rob Sheffield taught me for sure is that music is a carrier of love. Love at any level. Love of anyone to anyone. Love in the cake you ate yesterday under Sting's Desert Rose. Love is everywhere in everything. Music is also everywhere. It is glorious power that knows no obstacle to enchant both souls and minds. Music keeps safe the love you felt that day on the train. Music is what preserves it after you got distracted.
Thanks Rob! :)
I'll remember what you said and keep it into Losing My Religion day after day. Ok, I've just overdramatized this blog. I am quitting now. You all got the point. Listen the music and feel what you feel. You will feel it again sometime in prospect. :)

Pre - Birthday Black Sun .

The hideous word birthday is literary under my skin these days. Everyone smiling at you, with semi-cared expression, showing their joy that ypu exist.
The brutal truth?!
Who actually cares if you were born on this day?!...
Let's simplify things. Imagining you din't exist, what would your friends do? Have other friends. Know somebody else appealling to them. Share different moments. Yes. It is the truth. Everyone is so happy you were born because they can't really imagine the Spectacular Now without you. But, think, do you try to imagine your own life without your friends? No, right?
Too much questions.
I am sullen ow because my pre-birthday mood instead of happy jumping is set to thinking of the probable non-existence. Mhm. Depressing? Not even close.
You know, Death Cab For Cutie are a great band. I love their style. Recently, I've been listening to their song, Black Sun, and I find it quite melancholically awakening. It opens your eyes of the world outside. Wheter the girl on the station, waiting for her bus, is eating and laughing, or the boy, beneath the muddy stairs, is upset about last night fight... Do you first think of their birthday? I don't think so. They are players in the same game as we are. Our imagining their problem is a part of the game. Yes. And when we have friends we don't imagine. We ask them. We get know them. We suppose. But don't actually imagine.
And don't think of the words "I can imagine how hard it is." followed by a brief sorrow. Come on, hardly anyone tells it because it is a statement of undoubted truth. Most of them just feel the need to tell something. I got it recently by meeting a semi-stranger. I was confused to keep quiet and say nothing. I shared my confusion. He answered he never feels uncomfortable to keep quiet. Then... I got it.
Most of the pre-birthday talking, the words of consideration and the trivial answers are indeed trivial .
My next step is to find the people that can aunderstand only by keeping quiet. That's not pure friendship. That's complicated art.
Of course, these are just thoughts of a sullen pre-birthday person. A Black Sun. 

   How could something so fair

 Be so cruel

When this black sun revolved

Around you

"Like a Satellite"....

Random day. Practice C1 book on the table. Eating. Searching through Youtube.

I found the German Eurovision representator in.. I forgot the year. It's Lena with her song Satellite. I have had just a few moments in my life ( so far )  to experience finding out a song that describes myn feelings in the past but at a current moment. I start thinking: How are we supposed to get advice and recognition of our feelings just after we had taken action?
I am really astonished by the trivia of our lives. It is inevitable we made mistakes. Ok. But, leaving the scars of our mistakes and ongoing stories, how entartaining life can be with all of its curves and jokes?
Don't worry - you'll make your mistakes today. That's fine. You'll suffer. You'll get depressed. You'll lose friends. You'll talk to strangers. All of these are fine. They are natural in their non-aesthetisc shades. But how hard will you laugh when hearing the lyrics of the song you needed half a year ago?! How would you feel realising that your feelings are put in a song you are listening to at the present moment? As if one has burried your feelings in a book waiting for you at the attic, dusty and mature with all this time...
Let's take for example Emil Konrad's book. It's not the paperback novel that can be encountered on a shelf at the bookstore, but is undoubtedly not a sample of modern genius's work. Still, I found out how disturbing it may be to read your past from the sit on the afternoon train. It was an experience of getting to know yourself years after living through a definite moment. Same is the connection with songs - they are there ( not on a shelf but still in the space ), waiting for your arrival, never giving you a special sign of their significance, magnidicently glowing between the spacial distrubution of the Nothing and your intensely fulfilled inner matter.
So, the next question is on the line:
How can we possibly get rid of a period in our existence when a song, a book or simply a girl sitting on the bus stop may result in our memories coming flooding back.