When I draw, I begin to perceive the outside world sharper and further simultaneously. It's hard to describe it because it's a strange paradox. I'm somewhere inside myself, and yet I'm more conected with the surrounding reality. Almost as if my drawing allows me to hear and perceive everything that is happening around through some other channel that is not often used. I even feel that more than words I perceive what is hidden in the sounds.

Vowel shuffling, screeching of greetings, squealing of agreement, or vice versa, grunting of laughter, humming of important statements. Steps that are rushing, sloppy or irritating. 

In the melody of phrases, I better recognize what is outside of their content (actually, I don't really care about the words because they are shorelessly flowing whreever they want).

Also beacause of this, I love to draw at busy places. But I choose the busyness.

There are different kinds of them.

Yet human satisfaction is firmly built on this misconception, and the bad judgment that comes out this misconception about what is really important in life, is passed with frightened glances and important head nods from tot to tot, grandmother to grandfather, from dad to mom and from teacher to professor.

We all know the painful moments when something leaves us or we are leaving something or someone. A beauty, a relationship, a dog, an apartment, a memory, a job, a child, a life ...

The pain of these moments seems to taste sweet when... :

1. ... we think that what replaces outgoing will be more luxurious, more intelligent, more beautiful, more permanent, in short, we'll get better till the end of our lives, at least! (From this belief comes the concept of the eternal paradise and other similar attractions.)

2. ... we perceive the loss itself as the perfect gift we receive from life, which is not what we usually plan to do, it usually just happens to us. (Is this a state of human happiness? The utter confusion of a civilized man? The ability to fully live an ever-disappearing presence?)

Everything I write here is no great discovery, nor has it any practical, lifelong meaning. It is just a small reflection in the fleeting moment between an inhale and exhale, Letna and Zizkov, plum cake and coffee, a charming shopgirl and her unique life, that she knows and no one else in the world.