11 days ago
All my words they aren’t mine. All of them are listed in the dictionary.
All the letters which I use weren’t invented by me. They were here long before me and will remain centuries after I’m gone.
All what I say, all what I write, it’s always inspired by something, it’s never entirely an abstract product of my mind, without ties to reality, other people, books, etc.
How much of me there is in myself? Am I a mere product of my environment and experience? Put anyone in my shoes, give them my life and would you get my personality as a result? Where do I begin and where my experience steps in? How post-modern am I? Is there anything authentic about me?
How much of me there is in the world?
Sometimes I think that the answer is zero.
That everything that I do begins with re-: reliving someone’s experience, rethinking the same thoughts, reconsidering the same possibilities, rediscovering “truths” as people centuries before me did. at Чистопрудный Бульвар