Each of us in our own style, but I have to assume that we are all “taraos”. Tarao like so many other words is something that I don’t feel comfortable translating to another language. I think that it is a word worthwhile importing. Tarao is the fact that one of us is sitting on the sofa looking at the Ipad while the TW is on; another of us is probably watching Netflix upstairs. Even further, there is another, the one you have the luck of meeting and talking with right now, that is writing with a black pen, a reminder of a writing feather, in a notebook where he can explore his calligraphy and the tinniness of his letters while beings illuminated by the light of some candles. This thirds one, which we can call protagonist because it is the one that we know better, feels a special type of pain in his right knee, and a sort of numbness in his right hand, the one he is writing with. Most probably, both of these symptoms are caused by the fact that he just came out from a cold water bath. The first he has taken deliberately.

In a world dominated by social media, smartphones and the internet, our writer is feeling like living in the golden ages of any European country, well before even the invention of electricity. Candle, ink, and hours. Fortunately, there is soap at his place, and even drinkable water straight from the tap, in case he feels thirsty, a sensation that hasn’t arrived yet to his system since probably, most of his organs are still fighting the cold shock suffered in the bath.

He feels awake though. And his abilities for paying detailed attention to his behavior, almost assure him that the fact, among others, that he didn’t use the phone during the last 24 hours has brought him directly to the place where he is. So, how did all start?

There are many points in the story to consider. One of them is the fact that he forgot when was the last time he committed the sin of indulging in the self-generated sexual climax. Besides, his stomach is tonight practically empty, and everything he tries to eat feels like too much. Another factor can be the mere reality of being writing with a pen, a craft that on these days has been forgotten and relegated as a pleasure and extravagance of the old days.

He has considered fasting many times in the past, just in order to follow the trend of a successful religion. However, indeed, what attracted him the most is to experiment with his own being, a vice that has been closed to cost him his mere existence in some cases that we will discover at his due moment.

Obviously, as every writer that consider them so, he likes Russian Classics. Not only for the direct interventions with the reader, as you may have already noticed, but also by the way the characters, although described by the raconteur in the first chapters of the book, are mostly revealed in their behavior among the different situations that they encounter along the story.

Because great novelists, as great psychologists and researches of the human mind, soul and being as they are, know perfectly that one thing is what we think, another thing is what we think we say, another is what we say, another what we think we do, another what we say we do, and another completely different than the previous possibilities is what we actually do.

Therefore, saying that our protagonist was cursed with the deadly addiction of curiosity and knowledge is one thing. But telling how the day he touched the lighter of the car got a completely new fingerprint in his thumb, is another.

He cried like every child does. But the way those sankharas were craved on his soul is an issue that may well take us many pages and a fair number of hours. Thus, once we get here, what are the reasons for not continuing with this whole thing?

Maybe it is all matter of lacking paper, diligence, and training, or maybe is the fear of finding himself represented and trapped in characters of American novelist that pictured writers that only had a pen an a notebook. Characters that were fed by a mysterious someone from the other side of the door. Such entrapment, such a prison where the only escape from the confinement is the exploration of the darkest corners of the mind. Like the tale of Daedalus, Icarus, and the Minotaur, where technology allowed the creative Daedalus to build some wings for him and his son, Icarus. Thus, they were able to escape the labyrinth of his minds, but the dissatisfaction and arrogance of Icarus made him try to reach the sun, burning his wings and dying in the fall. More than 2.000 years of wisdom and we still don’t learn, don’t listen or don’t pay attention to what the ancient tales tell.

Nowadays, modern historians have to alert us about the fears of where we are going, and try to alter the outcome of this level two chaotic system with his predictions.

Probably the thing that our writer needed the most was a girl. A woman. A female partner able to explain him the tools that had shaped the mere existence of the place and society where he has happened to be born. From Greeks to Romans, to Christianity to Adam Smith’s, to Andy Warhol’s. A whole compound of names, histories, traditions, and movements that he had never fully understood. And for lack of conscientiousness and excess of curiosity, he had ended up exploring tradition from the other side of the world, where things tend to be less wrong and less right, and in many cases, they simply are. The inwardness bestowed by these conceptions have undoubtedly shaped his personality, teaching him about his emotions and sensations in a non-theoretical way. And ultimately observing his mind as if it was something other than himself.

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