Where to hide these days? In what recession of memory? It is certainly a comfortable one, in which nothing has changed. But by now it is already the memory of a memory and so far the road is a twisted clew of synapses. Childhood is the safest destination, but it’s getting harder and harder for me to get there.
“Even the smallest flower has its roots in infinity.” It’s a phrase from a book I recently just opened (Das Sanduhrbuch by Ernst Jünger). If I remember correctly, so said Borges, that you can read the history of the entire Universe in the spots of a leopard.
I do not know what others believe, but when I think of this idea, although magnificent, it seems very tiring. Most likely, it is the fatigue that made me think that in a way, what makes us people special, is our freshness. None of us are ancient. Yes, we have the same eons in the back, but this is of little interest to us. The unconscious, yes, is ancient. But consciousness is new. It suddenly appears, at one point, and disappears just as suddenly, after only a few decades. Decades, not millennia, not millions, not billions of years. We have no time to get tired, to get old, to stiffen. And we are our consciences and nothing else. Everything else is repeatable, every feature, every eye color, every shade of hair, every trace of temperament, every gesture, every word, every whim, all of this is found in many people. But consciousness is always unique and very lonely, unfortunately! It’s good that we have empathy from time to time, so at least we suspect that there are other consciences around us, and luckily we stay young. I suspect that Jünger’s flower is unconscious. Otherwise I can not explain how it supports the boundlessness of its roots.
Painting by Vladimir-Kush