Today I chose a garden to finish the journey that I had begun years ago – starting point: the spot on the mind that keeps on shouting that greatness does not look upon us in order to seek refuge nor do better dreams find homage within our ego. So, what better way to celebrate this sort of emancipation-before-extinction than to submerge my thoughts onto the absurdity of someone else’s perception concerning the disquietude of life?

I used to wish upon a splendorous faculty somewhere inside my way-too-human brain so that I would be able to come up with something that might offer equanimity for those who didn’t even know they needed it to begin with – how hypocrite and self-assured, these longings of mine.

There is something about a tome that allows our ruminations to uncover paths, reveries, and cognisance that aid our action-reaction or vice-versa when facing the fact that this is the world that we were born into alongside everybody else, though. Something like empathy, it seems, starts to germinate within whatever may be considered our essence. Herein, I decided to organise my cerebrations into words and sentences, and puzzles that someone or no one might read. Ergo, here I find myself projecting thoughts into written discourse about anything literature or art related.

Nonce I recall similar deliberations shared by two professors that happened to tutor me in two very distant universities I have attended: to comprehend a book means not to read it once, for its interpretation, understanding, and apprehension rely upon numerous readings amidst a myriad of events that life throws our way while it naturally transpires. And such an appreciation happens to clock in during my rereading of Camus’ “Le Mythe de Sisyphe”, for the fashion in which my encephalon seems to have received its contemplations most certainly differs from the very first moment it came across such a museful work.

«(…) There’s also a metaphysical happiness when it comes down to sustaining the absurd of the world. The conquest or the game, the innumerable love, the absurd insurrection are homage that the human being pays to their dignity in a field where they’re vanquished beforehand. (…) “The art and only the art, - Nietzsche said -, only the art remains so that we won’t yea die.” (…) To create is to live twice. (…) Everyone makes an effort to imitate, to rehearse, and to recreate their own reality. We always end up having the face of our own truths. For a human being that’s at bay from eternity, the existence in its entirety is but a vaulting imitation beneath the mask of the absurd. Creation is the great imitation. (…) The true work of art is always human-measured. (…) For the absurd artist, the problem is to acquire that living-knowledge that surpasses the know-how. To finish off, the great artist is, first and foremost, a great creator in life (one should infer that to live, in here, is as much experimenting as it is reflecting). Thus, the work of art incarnates an intellectual drama. The absurd work of art illustrates the thought renouncing its prestige and resignation (…). If the world was unambiguous, art wouldn’t exist.» in “The Absurd Creation”: ‘Philosophy and Romance’.

I intend not to delve into this work as of yet. I hereby share an excerpt that has struck a chord within my artistic-side, I fancy, purely as a means to infer an eventual disquisition regarding the author or the aforementioned opus, or both. Noteworthier shall be to take up this first article so as to declare the beginning of yet another literary journal. I hold no intentions of following a strict schedule in regard to its updates which means I’ll be writing whensoever I have a yen for.

Today I chose a garden

drowning, I