For some time now, I had been putting novels aside to read more non-fiction, but I missed immersing myself in the world of stories. So I started reading again in the still-dark morning hours, with a candle burning in front of the fogged window. The first sounds, apart from the cars of people heading to work, are the cries of the crows. Then I know the sky is becoming slightly brighter, while the air grows colder. It’s so beautiful to feel it all, to live from the inside. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by all the subtle nuances of everything. There is so, so much between black and white – everything, multilayered in all dimensions. Thinking about this reminds me of my early childhood, when I would regularly force myself to think about death. People said there is nothing when you die. I tried to immerse myself in this nothingness, and it created the strangest feelings in me. I cannot say they were pleasant, it was more like falling into an endless hole, yet at the same time, they drew me toward them.
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