Wandering in the city like a ghost, feeling very far from myself indeed, colder than a corpse, on Sunday night. But i see the following remembered autumnal sights, which seem to take me back to something antideluvian, something relating to my earliest childhood: yellow light in tenement windows, dwindling outside-pub smokers, empty streets and shopwindows. Passing by a tenement a flash of white catches my eye and i look up to see a woman at a window praying in a full, flowing white hijab, bending rhythmically toward Mecca, her arms flapping like angel wings in the amber light.
And in my mind i compose an open letter to the happy, confident freshers: "Egoism is not the way forward. He who is an artist from his heart does not need to blow his own trumpet in the self-satisfied way of some.
I know one thing; in seeking the truth it helps to be humble and even ascetic, to have a spirit of renunciation. This would literally never occur to some of the students in a million years. Their road of excess isn't leading to the palace of wisdom. It's just looping back on itself like empty feedback. They'll never understand what's noble about that renunciation, the spiritual value of it; an embrace of poverty, loneliness, all the strong, cleansing emotions, is like a dose of medicine sometimes."
And with these and like meditations i fold etc to bed.
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