May 5, 2022: Thoughts on NFT Art

I recently started creating NFTs. I do not know where the world is taking us, but it’s clear to me that NFTs can be art. And, certainly, I don’t want to miss the train. Even artists must keep up with the times.

Yesterday, when I was exploring and browsing the marketplace, I came across an NFT that I liked. I checked its price, and it was affordable. Since I never purchased an NFT before, I said, “Alright. Let this be the first NFT that I buy.” So I did. I purchased my first NFT, but I don’t really know or understand why I purchased it.

Nevertheless, even if this will take me nowhere, and even though it is still unclear where we are headed, it feels good being part of something new, really new.

I think the NFT art world still lacks theory and spirit, but I don’t think it will stay this way for long. As more and more artists join the movement, and more and more collectors purchase their work, critics, scientists, and philosophers will follow, and new theories will be born.

What makes this or that NFT a work of art? Which NFTs are art and which of them aren’t? I will have to do some research and think about this.

For now, I will keep on creating NFTs, and, very likely, I will keep on purchasing NFTs, too.

Whatever will happen will happen.

April 7, 2022: Time to become a new man again

Woke up wanting
to become a new man
again.

The birds were singing,
mockingly tweeting
while fragments of pointless conversations
and choruses from the night before
ricocheted in my head.

Memories blown to shreds.
Everything fleeting
except regret.

Thoughts – whirlwinds
in my crumbling mind! –
were like propelled balls
in a pinball machine.

I was crying, “God…  
Was I playing
beer pong?
I was. I kept on playing
beer pong,
losing almost every game.”

The birds were singing,
“He must become a new,
new man.
The man he is now
is self-destructing.”
 

April 2, 2022: To Find or To Lose Yourself

I was organizing my bookshelves when one of the books slipped and fell to the floor. It was Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Genealogy of Morals. I picked it up, opened it, and read the first lines of the preface: “We are unknown, we knowers, ourselves to ourselves: this has its own good reason. We have never searched for ourselves — how should it then come to pass, that we should ever find ourselves.”

‘What he says is true,’ I said. ‘Although, I remember a time when I was out there searching for myself. That’s how I spent my twenties, looking for purpose and the meaning of life, trying to figure out whether I was born to be a rockstar or an entrepreneur. But every discovery I made I drowned in whisky. And I had a good reason to do so: I did not like what I found.’

Today, I’m thirty-four, and I still don’t know who I am or what my purpose is.

The meaninglessness of everything demotivates me, though it doesn’t stop me from living my life to the fullest. I often manage to forget my inescapable, inevitable death and the absurdity of life, and I manage to enjoy the moment.

But that’s not the point. That’s not the point, at all.

Maybe we — knowers or not — can never find ourselves.

I don’t know…

On the other hand, sometimes, the goal seems to be the exact opposite — to lose yourself, to get lost, to be intoxicated by life and lose control, to let go, to drown in the sea of forgetfulness and become one with the forgotten.