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Homage to the Muses

I am desperately trying to remember an idea that I had earlier. It was so vivid, so good, that I was certain that I will remember it for years to come. A few hours later — nothing. Not a single shred of memory apart from the fact that it was good and important.  Where do our thoughts come from? Are they stored somewhere, and we just put our hands down, grab one by the neck and take it to the surface of our mind? No? Do we produce them? I guess that is the answer of most. ‘It is my thought! I built it myself’?  ‘Out of what’, I would ask. I always had the feeling that the thoughts do not belong to me. It always feels rather magical to have an idea and most of the time I don’t feel happy receiving the credit for it. I feel like a fraud, like a pretender.  People in older times were somehow humbler. They believed in the existence of the Muses, and I find this very agreeable. How wonderfully humble that idea is! I produce something, but only if I am inspired by the gods. So ‘...
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Thoughts by the Lake



It was one of those magical spring afternoons in which the wind was so gentle that my skin felt almost dissolved by its touch. My dog was waiting impatiently for her ball and I was staring at the lake over the stretching field in front of me. Further down, at a throw-of-a-ball distance, there was a young man clad in lycra. He was also looking ahead and I thought that he was enjoying the view. It was pleasant to know that another person was participating in my immense contentment and peace... Until he spoke and I realised that I have missed the white piece protruding from his ear. It was sticking out in a quite silly manner, like a shiny bone, completely out of place. His mind wasn't resting on the beauty I was enjoying. He was on his phone, talking business. 

I just wonder if nature, eventually, will not reject us like a woman, who is not paid enough attention. Women do not seem to like being ignored.

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