Thursday

What to do? The impasse is still an impasse. The plateau is still the peak from which I can always fall, but can I surpass? Perhaps. The years of narrowing down to affordability, the lack of possibility, and the need for sustainability: is this all about ability or the lack thereof? Are we all the same person wanting the same things for ourselves and thinking similar thoughts behind similar faces? People: variations on a theme? From a distance, are cultures homogenous and noisy enough to sound like a symphony? Or, perhaps, are things slowly but surely pulling away from a calm core of a chorus into chaotic dissonance? Arguably, we are out of harmony with our environment, pummeling past it into the graces of clouds where only imagined immortals once dwelled.

Who cares?

This desk is still a desk. This chair, these clicking sounds that rise up into the air hit the ceiling (cement, not glass) and bounce back down again. False dichotomies have my analytic mind in a vice: meaning versus no meaning, something versus nothing, fatalism versus nihilism.

The middle path…who has discussed it before? Did it start with Aristotle? Maybe Socrates, or a Pre-Socratic Heraclitus? This was discussed by the much revered Buddha and centrists/moderates across the universe. But, is this compromise? Can a vision be so clear as to lead in one direction beyond all the others? The Buddha walked the middle path, but the same time was a rebel. That is to say, he followed an extreme that was radical because it was his own path. Is this what Heidegger called the calling?

Nothingness. Nothingness is still the something that hums like an OM that never gets as simplistic as an ocean’s breath. Nothingness that is the mundane that cannot or will not reveal to me its supposed sacredness. Human ideas imposed upon a world that was not conceived by human ideas…

When we were younger, we imagined that the future might be molded from our attempts and wishes. The future was (was!) a malleable thing and we were (were!) capable of holding it in our hands. That’s right, it in our hands, as if it was an object to be beholden to. Now, the future is no longer an object, but a mirage. A thing we cannot help but plan for (it is predictable), but also cannot count on (it does not exist). Life is unpredictable, or so we are told. Or, so we have witnessed. The random death of a child. The random strike of lightening. Randomness in itself may just be a human misconception. Chance…the human inability to assign meaning to events? Or, is chance instead meaning that is the human misconception: the drive for reason over stretching itself into arenas in which it is not applicable? Perhaps, this is the fourth, fifth, ninth, whatever dimension. Perhaps, this is the unfathomable cube for an ordinary square. What I conceive as my hidden inside might just be a perspective from which I cannot yet gaze.

Regardless, these thoughts are shot. They go nowhere faster than air arrives into lungs and proceed to leave them. Just another electrical wave in the dark. “Just another”? “Just”?

The assigning of value, the grand dreams of a broken ordinary genius.