A Strange Pastime | Jiří Charvát

Writing is a strange pastime.

It is about trust

I’m sitting. Staring at the blinking cursor, I have to trust that something will happen. As if I don’t, it won’t happen.

What is this trust, though? What forces do I expect to start moving?

I have to believe that while I was living, reading, sleeping… something has collected in my head, where I can reach into now.

I have to trust that, because I myself don’t feel any more competent. From the place where I’m sitting, I still see myself as the same, empty, scared, ever changing flow of consciousness.

The more I have to trust. That somewhere beyond my field of vision exists something that I can lean against. That if I begin, something will happen. That my brain is smarter than me.

It is about audacity

I have to convince the world that my next word is worth something. Worth a drop of printer’s ink. Worth a quarter second of your time.

But the world is secondary here. Who I really need to convince here is myself. Otherwise the very energy that puts the word on a page will disappear.

So many voices are coming at me from all directions. When I look closer at the dude in the gown, with a hammer and a funny wig, when I look at his face really carefully, I see it’s been me all the time.

It is about the now

I cannot pre-think it.

I need a vague idea. A direction, which to take.

But it only happens one word af-ter an-other. A let ter a f t e r a l e t t e r.

It is that easy. It is that difficult.

It is about letting go

Letting go of perfection.

No matter what I put down here, it will never be as perfect as a blank sheet.

Letting go of a goal.

It doesn’t lead anywhere.

Even if I write the best and most cited text in the whole world, it won’t bring me happiness. Tomorrow I have to start again from scratch.

I’m doing it to do something.

Life is a strange pastime.

It is about trust

You have to trust.

That you will learn to read. That you will find work and a partner. That you’re capable of loving, others and yourself. That you will bring up children. That you will come to terms with death. That you won’t burn the chilli this evening.

You have to trust that, because from the place where you’re standing, you don’t feel very competent. You are an empty, scared, ever changing flow of consciousness, which from the outside looks like a human.

The more you have to trust. That somewhere beyond your field of vision exists something that you can lean against. That it will happen. That your brain is smarter than you.

It is about audacity

Every morning you have to get up and go convince the world that you know what you are doing. That it is worth it to pay you for something. That it is a good idea to have babies with you.

But the world is secondary here. Who you need to convince in the first place is you.

You have to pretend you are who you are not, in order to become that.

It is about the now

You cannot pre-think it.

You need a direction, which to head. You need a story – about yourself and everything around. The sense that it is all heading somewhere.

But you can only live it one moment after another. In each moment on this line connecting the cradle with the grave, you are in one point only.

You cannot go forward, you cannot go back. There is only this noncompromising pressing now, which needs to be lived.

It is that easy. It is that difficult.

It is about letting go

Letting go of perfection.

There is no perfect work, relationship, life.

Letting go of a goal.

It doesn’t lead anywhere. No matter what you achieve, it won’t make you happy. The brain will get used to everything. And will again pull you back, to its emotional homeostasis.

You continue your journey towards your dreams with a cynical smile.

You know that you’re doing it… just because. To be doing something.

It is

Your life is a book. You are its author and at the same time its only reader.

And this book has no meaning whatsoever.

Besides the meaning you give to it.

This article was published in Pravý domácí časopis no. 09/2019.

Translation to English: Jan Koubek
Illustration: Kateřina Čápová

This article can become reality
thanks to Pravý domácí časopis
and the support of my fabulous patrons.

Thank you, guys.

Writing is a strange pastime.

It is about trust

It is about audacity

It is about the now

It is about letting go

Life is a strange pastime.

It is about trust

It is about audacity

It is about the now

It is about letting go

It is

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