The mind’s Sabbath

They’re nice, X tells me, those days when no thoughts are pressing on him and forcing him to think them, those days when he can rest and just let his mind drift into vague daydreams like Pessoa’s Soares after he’d gone through his feverish occult phase, his feverish philosophising and search for meaning, he says. It’s nice just to sit back in his deckchair and let his brain wander into nothingness, he says, enjoy the mind’s Sabbath and finally get some rest, everyone needs rest sometimes. But then they start again, don’t they, X says, they always start again, listen they’re starting now, and maybe it’s not such a bad thing, he says, after all what would he be without his thoughts, a robot, a dog, so he should think them through, think them all the way through, critically, that’s his responsibility, isn’t it, he asks. That’s the only way he can become himself, isn’t it, and we all have a responsibility to become ourselves, why do I think he’s talking to me, he says.


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