This is mostly from a letter to a random girl I came across which obviously again left unanswered. It was by the time I was pretty much captured and in a way being fooled by a mystical sense. Am I done with it? It seems so, though I shall never dare say so.

My Dad used to call me, surprisingly and wide-eyed, "what sort of creature are you?!" Weird and incomprehensible, both for others and myself. You rarely will see, among the people you live with, someone similar. These are a very rare type of character(and which type isn't rare?). So yes Janice, I too understand that how pleasing and assuring it is when we read works of those whom we find their experiences similar to us.

I like the way Iris Murdoch describes mystics: "Hunted by a metaphysical sense". Are they to be grateful for it? A grace or a pain? Step by step, one by one, it tries to cease the self from being; and it does it "systematically". One side belongs to life this world the other to nothingness. A lifetime, and perhaps fruitless, struggle between these two. The flesh the soul cries its needs out, longs for living. The spirit, who doesn't hear nor understand this language, does it's own job. This painter potter or the builder who is in work in every creature, whom we sometimes see as if we are within a tree and feel the current of life, this moment to moment becoming which runs through everything. Yesterday in people whom we read their works and in everyone. today in you and me, tomorrow it will find and dwell in some other flesh and soul. And here I am, here I am, standing helplessly in between still looking for a promising future.

Sometimes I reflect on my life, all the years that I lived in this earthly world as a human being but entirely was engaged with a thing that had nothing to do with me or where I was. Did I waste my life? Is it wasted? Was it not the very door that was supposed to remain close? Why do I curiously try to look through the gap?

It took me a long time only to start growing up(and I haven't grown up yet). At some point it made me to stop and withdraw to myself by the force of tiredness. I didn't want to. I run away and don't want to die. But it is impossible, impossible. Tiredness and filth and misery knocks me down. What a good fellow they are!

I found "The spiritual life" a good book and recommend it. There is a sentence in it that still rings in my ear: "Cannot be hurried; but, unless we take it seriously, can be infinitely delayed.". Yes it can. It can be delayed infinitely(here I make a sigh).