Across the spastic reaches of the void, convulsive and coughing tears of rent space, a laryngectomy of time, we come in.
We plunge through, like a finger probing a hole.
And after we are in, we are a raving neonate unknown to itself, years away from any kind of contemplation and self-observation.
We come in without registering.
Between is life and then we exude out. We bleed from the laryngectomy, hemmorhage from the throat.
Diddling. It is all diddling with ourselves.
The brightest of us who are not solely ruled by intellect realize after years of earth living that meaning, so praised by scholars and sages, is a rather useless thing, a kind of species perseveration.
What the most aware among us realize is that meaning never has existed, that the crazed majesty of time and space is to tear only at itself, to render asunder through light years; that accidental species are serenipitous pus, dropped here and there, to and fro cosmically, as the excretions of larger events and energies.
The truth of it is that to absorb the profound weight of this perceptive realization, the rejection and refusal of meaning, leaves the bravest of the brave, the most aware, choices to contemplate, frees them, perhaps, of earthly mentation. To be free of meaning is to enter time and space as a willing, non-judgmental traveler.
Religon is a human relic and essentially fear, fear of absence of purpose, of meaning. It is mankind’s umbrella-like construct to avoid the heavens above and beyond this third planet from the Sun. So retrogade that first it must be dispensed with if one is to see clearly. And if one chooses to do so only then can the individual grapple with meaning which itself is the hardest burden to be rid of. If religion is an illusion, meaning is a malady.
Stand back from these episodes and we see life — war, change, overwrought and hyper-realized technologies, history, political systems that are constructed to hold man in chains and we see the chancres that human beings create for themselves. Human beings are excellent at being their own hostages.
Perhaps the transcendent view might be to surrender all these illusions, know the profound stoic futility of human existence and dispense with these mental cobwebs. The Greeks said it best, those first civilized contemplaters of the cosmos, that all is flux, change is constant, that we are atoms, that we are fractals. That chaos is all.
Perhaps the transformative human being will see the in and the out of his life and wisely resign himself to it, for there is a quantum truth to the axiom that all is sound and fury signifying nothing. For this is the big bang of human existence — really for nothing. Nothing is the ether of time and space, and we are not interlopers but leftovers of processes and stellar combustions we cannont conceive or contemplate. We are less than the remains of the day,
View yourself as a remnant.
How appropriate that we have no sense of who we are prior to birth, for memory is a human experience, and how we gestated for months, parasitically so.
Before “before” we were mere stellar soot.
After “after” we return to stellar soot.
To be in the world is to have a momentary flash of existence and to be out the world is to return once again to unawareness, to give up our paltry sense of cognition.
Rituals for dying are just that. Dying is just that — once again a tearing asunder, a human metaphor for cosmic rifts and ravages of time and space. Mortal concerns are the task, apparently, of our brief stay, non-transcendent, only meaningful for the brainpan that makes them a survivor caul, to protect from the fear and terrifying fright of nothingness, neither friend nor enemy.
The concept of God is a pinprick, if that, on the web of space — unfelt, unsensed, unknown by everything else, dust, a mote at that, and mankind’s greatest folly.
Step back and observe. Step forward and SEE.
All this hurly burly is useless, to me, to you. And that is the point, for wheels need to turn, lights need “off” and human minds need to consider.
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