Tamara Stamenkovic
Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

About a man

One man. One mind. A thousand of them inside us. Who, how many? Characters, or only the visible facial skin we don’t have? Personality as a split caricature in the distorted form of various forms and its variability, an ideal mixture of mechanical thinking and imaginary part of the mind, necessary and continually present. Can we live without that? Can we walk instead of run, or are our legs too heavy? Perhaps that’s only a portion of the illusion. One man. One chance to become a man. A thousand wrong turns to the right approach, a thousand broken parts inside us, irreplaceable. How many parts does it need to break to understand how to put them back together? Or maybe we can’t. What’s the point of the ideals if our ideal is disturbed and damaged in the loss of conscience? But, again, are we driven by just one idea, or one is enough if we know that it is worth many less important ones? And we, humans, think we know what’s enough. One who continually wonders and seeks for purpose can be named intelligent because there is no benchmark for what we strive for, there’s no limit if barriers never existed to us. But they do appear, and we want to reach them only to go beyond them, but our minds get in the way, deceptive and cunning. Everything is inside it, and everything arises from it. And in all its games we are only small figures, easy targets and used winding dolls. But we are not its image, we are the most real victims of our mind, and that is a fact. We want to be the illusionists of everyday life, the dancers in our cage, the magicians who create the incomprehensible, for ourselves, for our own sake, for what we need, what we cannot have. We want a lot of things, people with a psyche, which is a magnet for all our mistakes and actions that intertwine to tackle what’s right. And here they are combined, they are lost, and they feel trapped in cobwebs, from which is difficult to escape. One man. One mind.Alone with himself, against the world that engulfs him and causes him to stay human, or to be nobody and nothing. So, we get into perspective. How we look at becoming and remaining who we are or aren’t. We perceive everything in front of us and how to look at it the right way. But everything around us is camouflage if the mind chooses so. Can we see behind the curtain sewn from mind manipulation, or will we stand in front of it, accepting that there’s nothing behind it that can change? Are we going to give up on the thought of dragging the curtain because of the fear of not having the ability to defend ourselves against manipulation? And we become the magnet for the bad, the wrong, the incomprehensible and the unknown, why? Adrenaline. Curiosity. Need. The desire for discovery and temptation. For the experience. For what can hurt us, even if we know that. We are all a bit of a masochist. We all start from something inside us to find it somewhere else, in someone, somehow. And our bones are made of plasticine when we find ourselves between the times that trample on us and the past moments in which we mold ourselves into the people we are now, but when something hits us and endangers our life in any way, our bones turn into steel. We defend ourselves with everything we have and can, using the brain, the very mind that plays with us and makes us its victims. And the ambiguity of that is more than obvious, even as ridiculous as it is visible. Of course, for those who have a different perspective than the average one. Those composed of parts that are incomprehensible to those to whom the surrender to the thought is something quite reasonable and natural. Everything else is absurd to them. And we get to the stage where we are in the arena with our minds, deep inside sure that we are losing, but fighting. One man. His mind and his battle. Generally, one whole life. And finally, one end. The end of everything and the beginning of nothing. Vice versa.

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