In the mountains, my life sometimes appears to be like a little waterfall, which suddenly slips by my side, tumbles over the granite rocks, and drips between the plates of stone. Naturally, I would prefer my life to be a mighty waterfall – an inverted one, an upstanding water column, a liquid erection. Otherwise, in the mountains, I come up with hardly any bright ideas. Certainly, that has got to do with the tradition of the place: the giant mountain, the pygmy human. It’s a trap. And, naturally, I take it much too personally, but, at the moment I don’t wish to be forced into being rational. So, I look at the fog, at how it hangs heavily over the glacier and the peaks. What a plump moisture, what a tired posture; yet, this formless wanderer rubs itself against the mountain peaks as if they are standing there simply for its convenience. Suddenly a thought flashes into my head: I have achieved nothing in life, done nothing with my life. That seems at first like a sharpening of the waterfall, as if the buzz will turn into tinnitus – but it feels light, almost jaunty. «Nothing» is definitely better than «less» - «nothing» is at least consistent. With «less» one can even be thankful, one has got to be thankful. For «nothing» one does not need to shake anyone else’s hand. That is good – «nothing» is better. And the Absolute that moves from mountain-top to mountain-top, isn’t it «nothing» if not distinctly closer than «less»? Where «nothing» is, everything can be – «nothing» is the opposite of «less», it is the total potential, the implosion of fulfilment.
That is sufficient: my megalomania is served and my head is rooted in freedom once again. Like an agitated fog I rub myself against everything that, quite simply, I take a liking to.
First Publication: 9-6-2013
Modifications: 22-6-2013