Everday life of a fallen philosopher

I.

The sound of exotic birds accompanied by a pleasant melody trying to evoke the dance of nature; stream, wind, rain. Panta rhei. Everything flows.

I despise that sound. I hear it every damn morning at almost the same time. Luckily, a single tap on the phone screen interrupts it. I wonder if the person who combined these rather lovely sounds expected it to be turned into an alarm sound that makes people want to vomit. Again, I fall back into sleep only to be jolted out of it, and so several rounds of struggle between the new day and me pass by. I'm nowhere near nature. I lie in my bed, in a rented apartment in grey Zagreb. Not even the bed is mine. Upon waking up, a compulsive series of plans for today begins. I will read. Maybe I'll go for a walk. I might watch a travel documentary. Or maybe a political one. We'll see. I'll prepare lunch at an acceptable time. I'll make sure it's a good lunch, made with effort and good ingredients. The kind of lunch befitting my mother. In the evening, maybe I'll invite a friend I haven't seen in a while for a drink. Or just call them. At least to hear their voice. I should also call my grandma. I often think about her solitary life in a few square meters, with an old radio, a cathode-ray tube TV that constantly emits that unbearable noise. And what else is there... there must be something else. Oh yes. Her own thoughts. I'll call her.After making a mental checklist for the day, I finally throw off the blanket and duvet. I decide to embrace this day. Not like I have a choice. Still, I won't get up just yet. In 5 minutes, maybe, but by then there should be a sensible number on the clock. Who in their right mind gets up at 10:13? At 10:15, perhaps, that makes more sense. That damn fifteen sneaks up too quickly. At 20, then. Maybe at half past.

It's already 11 o'clock. I remember a method I once heard of. Count down from five to zero and just do it. Something. Whatever you need to do. Don't give your mind a chance to make another procrastinating decision. Or a lazy one. Tired? Maybe depressed. Doesn't matter, start the countdown, damn it. Look, it actually works.

Coffee is a priority. Black, brewed in our old pot. Almost rusty, but not quite. Marginally rusty. It's probably the most used thing in this apartment. Of course, apart from the technological crap we all stare at like robots. Though, we're just shells of robots, and we won't even discuss human shells yet. Not before coffee. Every day I brew it the same way, but it always turns out different. Today, I want it to be so strong it could border on some kind of drug. The kind that resurrects people from the dead. Cocaine? I don't know, I've never done drugs. Doesn't matter now, as long as it's strong. It's already noon, no point in having breakfast. I do plan to cook lunch at a socially acceptable time, which is... probably soon. I'll light a cigarette. I remember a colleague from my former job who always wished me "bon appétit" whenever I went out to smoke, as if it was my only meal. Sometimes it was, damn it. I see the floating cloud of cigarette smoke in the air. The light pierces through the curtains exactly at that spot, giving it a chance to show itself. That sight disgusts me, as if I don't already know what I'm inhaling and exhaling. Now it's in front of me and I can't deny it. Another of the mind's stupidities; if I don't see it with my own eyes, it doesn't exist. If I don't see the physical manifestation of the stupid consequences of my decisions, I'll pretend there are no consequences. We underestimate ourselves, we make fools of ourselves. We only get offended when someone else does it to us. Walking paradoxes. I bring the cigarette back to my mouth. The smoke is already there anyway, so why not. I pick up the book titled "Letters to a Friend." Lucius Annaeus Seneca. Such a true Stoic that he stoically accepted even his own death. More precisely, his own suicide, but ordered. He didn't falter even then. I enjoy spending time with that great sage, scholar, thinker, opponent of emotions and impulsiveness... and the teacher of the man who burned Rome. Somewhat impulsively. That Rome which wasn't built in a day, but burned in one. Probably. I don't know the details, but it sounds effective. I read it somewhere and it's been living in my mind ever since as one of those sentences I semi-forcedly like to throw into ordinary conversations. Seneca writes to Lucilius about how philosophers (the real ones, of course) are the only ones satisfied with what they have, yet consider nothing truly theirs. Nothing that is not within them. He mentions some character who lost his wife and child in the ravages of war, yet remained content because he hadn't lost anything of his own - his courage, composure, prudence... He remained satisfied and undisturbed because he saved himself and his virtues. Bastard. However, Seneca says he didn't lose himself, and that's the only thing he truly possesses. I enjoy spending time with that sage, but sometimes I wonder whom he was addressing. People? He doesn't seem very human... I lift my gaze to ponder that just for a second, and my gaze falls on a cheap plastic statue of Gautama Buddha. Suddenly, I feel judged. Of course, he would definitely agree with Seneca. If they were alive today, they would probably sit together at the bar of the Faculty of Philosophy Student Club and discuss for hours over a few shots of Pelinkovac what belongs to us and what doesn't, and how we shouldn't get attached to anything if we don't want to suffer endlessly. They would definitely annoy everyone. The rest of the bar stools would be empty. Nobody wants to hear that on an ordinary Monday. Or Wednesday. Maybe on Friday, if those people had already warmed up with Pelinkovac. But they don't live now. They lived in a time when their words were the first of their kind in those areas. That's why I forgive them for their arrogance, pretentiousness, occasional contradictions, and love them. Damn it, I even carry a tattoo of those two on my body. I'll never get rid of them. I put the book down, only reading a few pages a day. Don't ask me why. I don't know.

Now it's lunchtime. I think it's already passed. I think I don't even have groceries. I don't feel like it. I'll make myself a sandwich, tomorrow I'll execute this better plan. Tomorrow I will. I eat that expectedly bad sandwich leaning against the kitchen counter. I think about what I'll tell my mother if she calls me today and asks what I had for lunch, and that's quite common so I need to think about it. Meanwhile, it occurs to me that I need to leave the apartment and pick up some documents. In other words, I need to snap out of my constant train of thought for which my apartment is a perfect refuge and go out among people. It seems more demanding than it actually is, but it has to be done so it's not difficult. The biggest lie ever told. I grab my jacket and keys and step out. I hear the sound of a mouth harmonica coming from our neighbor's apartment. For a moment, I admire his dedication. He plays every day. That mouth harmonica is surely his something. Not the physical harmonica, just playing it and the joy he gets from it. Is it joy or does it just seem that way, but it's actually an escape from something else, something less harmless than a mouth harmonica? With people, you never know about that. Oh yes, here they are. People. People in bustling Zagreb. The tram passes by and several of them hurry to get on. Once again, philosophers won't leave me alone. Every time I go out, I remember Baruch Spinoza and his mental exercises; look at every person, at everything around you, and repeat to yourself that you're looking at God. Everything is God, God is everywhere. We're all part of God. Ironically, a part of God is currently stumbling on the pavement and cursing God himself, along with several other unfortunate souls who found themselves on the list of scapegoats. Of course, he's not cursing Spinoza's God, but probably the one more known to people today, but it still interrupts my mental exercise. It seems that God got out of bed on the wrong side today. And accidentally drank too much beer in the morning. It happens. Still, lately, that exercise hasn't been sitting well with me. Despite my best intentions, I feel a blockage between myself and passersby. And most of all, a blockage between all of us and the universal force that unites us all. Maybe it will come back to me someday and I'll scan everything around me, say the Sanskrit phrase "Tat tvam asi" (That thou art) in my head and feel warmth around my heart. Maybe on a day when there's no fog and the cold doesn't bite my face. Maybe on some sunny spring day, when God will drink less and curse less. Spinoza wouldn't be happy with my interpretation, but that's how it is today. Today is one of those days that lean more towards absurdity than anything else. And I eventually get on the tram, which is less crowded than in the mornings, so at least that provides immediate relief. I stand next to a middle-aged woman who is visibly nervous and extremely bitter that the tram ticket machine isn't working. Automatically, I wonder about her day. What happened to her today, did she receive some frustrating news, did her boss overload her with work and reward her with criticism, did she maybe break a glass early in the morning and think "aha, today will be such a day"? I don't feel an excessive curiosity about the actual answer, I just briefly hope it's something like that, not that she's always in this mood. That would imply more serious causes, and I don't want that for her. On the other hand, there's a small group of teenagers who, as teenagers do, are the loudest in the tram. Moreover, the only ones saying anything. They exchange impressions about the exam, and one of the girls complains that her teacher didn't accept an answer that was almost correct. The rest of the group agrees with the claim that it's because the teacher is simply a devil. It seems like a reasonable explanation. I believe that hell is actually a place where we constantly take exams in high school desks and then find out that our almost correct answer wasn't accepted. And so on forever. Now I'm amusing myself. I wonder what this group will look like in ten years. What will they be doing, will they turn to family life or become free artists not attracted to that. Will they be happy or will they also be endlessly frustrated about tram ticket machines. I hope they grow into the best possible version of themselves, or at least be empathetic people who want to make the world a better place. Someone tell me I'm a chronic pessimist now.

After two hours, I manage to sort out the paperwork. I don't like bureaucracy. I believe only true masochists enjoy bureaucratic processes, but I wonder if there's even such an extreme level of masochism. It's already partially dark. The fog is now more visible, so Zagreb is swallowing additional greyness. Don't get me wrong, unhappy Reader. I love Zagreb, I love its people, I love its history. I love looking at the tops of buildings that are older than the founding of the United States of America. I love that in every café, at least one dog keeps its owner company. I love walking through the city and remembering which part of "Grič Witch" played out on that street, on that corner. I love that Zagrebians take to the streets and fight against what's wrong or celebrate what they love. I love Zagreb because I love myself in Zagreb, but we'll talk about that later. However, no one can convince me that this wonderful city doesn't currently look like it was painted by a complete colorblind person who, out of frustration, gave up and ordered everything to be painted the way he sees colors. And then an artist was added who believes that bad graffiti will perfectly complement the visual impression of the buildings. Moreover, the meeting was prevented from being attended by an urban forestry expert. Zagreb is like me today; it has potential, but it's not doing so well. Tomorrow it will.

I return to the apartment. I sit on the couch and light another cigarette. This time at least there's no visible cloud of smoke. It's late. Relatively. Grandma is probably asleep. Tomorrow I will. I don't have the energy for a conversation with people I haven't talked to in a long time because it would take a while. So, I don't call my friend either. Tomorrow I will. I'll play a documentary about the political history of Iran in the background, but I'll actually have my gaze fixed on the phone screen, mindlessly scrolling through pictures and videos that don't interest me at all, but maybe the next ones will. In the background, I hear something about the last Shah of Iran, but not enough to piece together any coherent picture from that information. This plan of mine isn't going well either. Maybe at least walking to and from tram stops, on the way to the bureaucratic destination, can be called a walk? Let's say it can. It's late. I think I'll take a shower and go to bed. Tomorrow we'll start over.