Without a question mark (or rather, deserving of the omission of a question mark), it is neither an implicit statement, nor a promise of programmatic evaluation or tendentious demonstration, nor any far-reaching answer, plea, or apology. In any case, as a (defective) question, it wouldn’t even be a so-called rhetorical one. It would be serious, however, to be silently thought of, asked, or completed in 0 conversations. So it happens, in the most modern and most general social form. Because if the question was serious, then it would be dramatic, it would not be worth daring a tactical analysis or formulating some decisive answer, otherwise the operation would mean plunging into an ever greater tragedy. An unheroic tragedy, without a very dignified and honorable denouement, which ended, honestly, only with tears, pain, silence, a real grave. And it is more correct and more useful: to resign.

However, however… Let’s put a question, a problem, just for thought.

(…)

The parentheses contain the unspoken things that we tend to hide, conceal, omit, that we pretend to have and know, but now have absolutely no desire (and will never have) to verbalize, even in chess. Why should I even tolerate a mini-show about which, in fact, absolutely everyone will have a completely different opinion? Well, here I leave the bracket not empty, but completely open for anyone who chooses (if ever) to lay out, honestly, the story of their own development into nothingness. For its part, the text is already ready. What follows is only an epilogue or a coda, to which, of course, almost everyone will react with antipathy and arrogance, especially without thinking at all, only feeling and being sure that he has a much better command of the matter. So: here’s my point!

Everything we have, everything we try – good or bad – is still not enough, we still want more. The demon of lust (Romanians generalize it as a theremen anguish and they are very proud of the fact that “he is not satisfied”!) rubs us so hard in the midst of all emotions, passions, passions, that it becomes a passion, a blind obsession, a cancer. And what is even more terrible is that from this evil disease which we mistakenly call “desire” (Nobist cite it as arrogance) many of us are idle. A cosmic and aesthetic drama, a parable worthy of honor and respect, The Meaning of Life. However, it is rarely possible to “go to the end” forever. The bad or miserable ones seem to have it a little easier, which is why it happens more often.

A lot of nonsense has been said and written about old age. Many beauties. Only the latter belongs more to paper, when it is scribbled with “divine grace” by “inspired” writers (not a little tobacco and alcohol), when it is written in suits with butterflies, sitting aristocratically behind a chest of drawers or an encyclopedic podium. And especially belonging to the vorbey quoted by others, poems for reading/reading to young and mature women. That is, a living, energetic and healthy world that absolutely does not know what old age is, cannot understand in any way what really happens when you are really old, when you really live with bad diseases, with the most terminal disease, when you really think about your exclusion, own disappearance. Sickness, decay, rejection, REAL death! Not theatrically played, not literary, not imaginary, not fantasized Kalophile, not stylistic props, as produced by all aesthetes-sophists, narrating book fiction about suicide, old age, death.

At the age of 40-50, after a life of selfishness, individualism and haste to build and sanctify oneself (career, family, wealth, etc.), everyone begins to be interested in the life of their parents. But it’s a little late. And everything that is too late is useless. Abandoned parents are mostly, at least psychologically, exhausted and silent, as if dead. They have already done everything they could (including evil, justified by purpose, disguised as good). They took advantage of their advice, harassing us excessively. They have lost all presence (not to mention authority). Their minds and speech are worn out, memory distortions and old age make them miserable, sometimes hideous burdens. Posthumously, grandchildren, pampered by grandparents, remember them for a while. Of course, from the point of view of some children, they bought candy, gifts, and cash with sympathy. In their 60s and 70s, estranged from their children, many urban elders take up genealogy and historiography, discovering (even through mind-bending etymologies or relative sociogeographic coincidences) that their ancestors will be known for more than two centuries. In any case, a futile operation from any pragmatic point of view, but provides new fodder for other fantasies, stories and praises to pour out to the few people around, those who have long been tired of the old stories, distortions, fabrications, egophilic self-flattering. The idea is that after all other existentially justifiable priorities, the world once again starts running after a painful thing, to rummage through the past that they once thought was a piece of garbage, to add something – anything – to their resume, fame, prestige, self-importance, vanity It is not enough to talk about intellectuals who, after “elite” entrances/receptions or invitations, begin to salivate, otherwise writhe with envy when they see how their acquaintances, friends or enemies of the generation receive public, military, civilian, official thanks, awards, medallions or greetings, interviews. on television, a portrait in literary magazines or just for ladies. The closer we get to nothing, the more we want. And let us no longer want to hear the truth, the hard details, the correct analysis or criticism, but only the language. The vast majority of the dying, who are still conscious, terrorize their relatives, neighbors and even strangers on the nearby park bench, talking only about themselves, their personal history or their obsessive stupid thoughts, constantly making excuses, explanations and, above all, , boasting that they are alone. Read more on Contributors.ro