On the devil's bridge

I do read The Bridge on the Drina. There is no connection of course, but the shock caused by this powerful narration pushes me somehow to rethink my whole projected work, reshape it. 
And yes, I am myself among the constructors of the devil's bridge, and I am myself crossing it, and I am Nietzsche's tightrope walker over an abyss.
And I see even more clearly the urge of getting out of the prison-house of culture, the importance of my task, and the intellectual legitimacy of the Poetics of the Void. 
And the necessity of giving it consistency, filling it with matter, arguing about it. 
It is also a strange sensation to see parts of my project fall down, discarded as supernumerary embryos, turned obsolete before they actually took shape. And something in the middle crystallizes, does take shape, clearness, importance.

I should reformulate my project, write it down again, in a new form. Clear, convincing, compelling. I should create a file for it, give it materiality. 


...
By the way, the free storage space for this website run down as I started to remake it over and over again and upload massively the materials from all my previous travels. The simple act of buying a professional package becomes a sort of threshold. Now I would be able to upload audio and video clips, and to do something I planned long ago: register lectures. I suppose this might lead me to a new quality. I have never been good at it, I suppose I'm giving rather a woeful performance: gammel is the word for it, rather than shabby. But I'm tired of my own shabbiness, and I miss a kind of cultured proficiency of a great scholar. And when I truly miss, sooner or later I do take.
I'm also in suspense for the news from Vienna. As I have already received the confirmation from Lisbon, my next year's bread is safeguarded. But I wonder what they would do with my Eremos, exposed as sincerely as I did for them. Would they postpone it too, offer the money to someone else, consider someone else better and worthier than myself, marginalizing me, as the University of Warsaw did?
And that's the devil's bridge, the only way is to cross it without glancing to the abyss. There is no return on the tightrope stretched between nothing and everything. And every day I regret less what I leave behind. That's a double course, a blessing of a new aurora, as if I never achieved, never gained, never possessed. Empty-handed, on the tightrope.