The Philatelist

Some time ago, I visited the house of my grandmother's sisters. It's a century old building with garden, right in the heart of Bila Tserkva city, a standing guardian of old times flanked with newly built modern wannabe-skyscrapers. It's ancient, it have been long falling victim to corrosion. Moreover, one would say, this hut has to be razed at once to give place for the new generation of housing, better ones in any reasonable respect. Yet, in my idealistic eyes, it stands as one beacon of romance, as a memorial to times which came to pass but bore the diversity of feelings which evaded my soul. Times and pictures I never passed through my perception for real, still ones I hunger to experience. This is just a same burst of emotion as when seeing an old castle: the lifeless rocks serve no real purpose anymore but a basis to build an imaginary panorama on.

I have yet so hear this from a professional psychologist, but naïve socionical tests give me a trio of psychotypes: schizoid, hysteroid and sensitive. In simple words, this means that I seek sharp images and impressions in life, but also have an ability to augment them to insane sizes and proportions inside my mind. Must admit, this is not untrue. This is why I have a deep love-hate relationship with vintage photos. Give me one and I will be trapped, sucking the impressions out of it and reconstructing the feelings an observer would have back then while realizing that world being long gone. In fact, any strong picture would do. An infant crowning his deceased bride in an attempt to restore her honour. Two young lovers crossing sights near the sea to declare their mutual feelings. A young emperor claiming the independence of a newly founded state from his own royal bloodline. Interestingly, I would not like to be in their shoes, it's just an overall image and associated feelings I admire. Werd' ich zum Augenblicke sagen: Verweile doch! du bist so schön!. This kind of relationship with reality. Guess I never associate myself with an actor, but much rather a scriptwriter or director. Sometimes I fail to instantiate myself as a living person but not an abstract third person observer. I have a picture on my phone reminding I'm a human. It's silly of me, but the thing works like a charm, effectively being a cold slap right into the mind carried away.

That said, this highlights a dangerous psychological trait in me I should be wary of. Whenever I am set ablaze by any an obsessive idea, what is it as a matter of fact? Is this something I may swear allegiance to or just a mantle I wish to try on for a delicious momentary emotion complex? So far, both options have been happening. Thus, importantly, when I will name her my life companion, it this a true willingness of making an long term bond, or is it just me, thinking a photo of us together would look neat?

Timelessness and Rust

Your worst foe is rust. You should probably have imagined those reddish deposits on some piece of metal? Trust me, rust knows not a single face. Right hand of the time itself does it manifest itself as the aging mangles the prettiest of faces, as the purest passion entangled in a cage of boredom and habbit, as anything of beauty slowly decays to its horrific demise. Rust makes matter and thought rot from the very inside, decomposes any ordering back to primal chaos. Order, chaos, those two are always in conflict, right?

Natural, you say? Think, just think! You are alive, and that already defines your side choice in that neverending struggle. Life creates form, life promotes meaningfullness, life reduces entropy, unlife tries dissolve any shape into an uniform whole. Over millions of years we have developed a handful of tools to retain our organisation safe from all the attacks of rust. Before one is torn asunder by the forces of aggressive natural physics, they pass to their offspring a safe keycode, sufficient to recreate all order previously achieved but fallen victim to time. With sentience, we brought that tactic to unbelievable heights, preserving not only our biological form, but also knowledge, invention and art — safe from rust's hungry fangs. Still, what we do, is but a defense. How about a counter strike?

What do we have to offer against the rust? One obvious solution is an everyday stubborn labour, a wise advice from The Little Prince, baobabs, their seeds and stuff. I shall not attack that aproach in full, I find it one honourable and righteous deed to do, however, with time being the nemesis, that effort may at best delay the inevitable still not fight back the culprit behid the rusting. The time benefits from a nice headstart, no matter how persistent we may work on ourselves. Time operates everywhere at once, a throughput not even theoretically achievable by us, being a subset of that “everywhere”, in fact, time will for ever be some steps ahead. But what then?

You, being gifted with mind are given that eternal riddle upon birth. You are to either solve it during what lifespan you are generously given by the heritage of your struggling ancestors or share their doom, still passing hope for the generations to come. Sooner or later, the intellect shall prevail. When we separate the beauty from the rot, when we manage to sever ties with rusting and transcede over the time itself, we might well prove to God we are, after all, worth having been created in His image.