Salt: In Answer to Your Previous Codified Message

January 11th, 2017by WitlessWhit

Life ought to make sense, right? The need to know our purpose and fulfill our destiny begs us to examine that which is essentially unknowable, or, if knowable, then unfathomable as our powers of discovery are limited by separation of one’s self from all other selves. For years I had focused upon apprehending that elusive absolute truth, in which I fully hoped to realize, unequivocally, that which drives and defines us, bestows sense and purpose, and ultimately leads to the culmination and actualization of this mystery of life: the upward calling of the soul. It is a destination I sought without a map of how to arrive there, driven only by some vague, yet unfailing belief that there is more to our shared human and earthly experience than the mere temporary satiety of our very temporal physical selves.

Ugh. Seeking absolute vs. relative truth; divine consciousness vs. a self-driven one; universal vs. personal meaning. . . . Who defines us: God? an impersonal cosmic consciousness? some unknown burgeoning energy expressing itself through and by the whole of creation which it then rigorously subjects to exhaustive experimentation in an attempt to discover its own nature: to achieve its own enlightenment? or our own selves, collectively and/or individually?

Since my efforts are forestalled by the physical limitations imposed by the necessity of experiencing the outward world via the unreliable physical senses, insufficient mental capacities, and simultaneously being further limited by space, time, and context, it is no wonder I failed in my efforts to acquire and process, in amount and complexity, the quantitative, qualitative, and quantifiable information necessary to draw reasonable conclusions.

Despair comes from needing to know with certainty that which is unknowable AND recognizing one’s own incapacity to embrace what may end up being an utterly anemic reality which honors not the importance we place on life and spirit, nor does it regard suffering or disaster as such: all things simply exist without regard to the subjectivity of our perceptions. This is intolerable! It is not to be borne! How does one endure the frost of an indifferent outer reality? (Curiously, the narcissists thrive, so it seems, as they appear contented to accept the status quo, preferring to concern themselves, not with the life struggles of others, with securing personal gain without regard to or concern for the sufferings and misfortunes of others.)

So the limitations of my own consciousness, even the very belief in the existence of a physically and psychically expressed individuated self, preclude the very possibility of arriving at any provable, much less knowable conclusion. It is my obstinance in believing that the world, even the premonition and potentiality of life itself, needs conform to some set of idealistic laws or universal truths which personally satisfy (a potentially precognitive requisite for both singularly and pluralistically defined meaning and) some preordained destiny in order for me to fully embrace life that has proven to be misguided: a fool’s errand.

But even the life of a fool has merit, having led to a different discovery altogether, for in seeking to impose order upon chaos, equanimity upon upheaval, tenderness upon heartlessness, and the like, and in seeking beauty, purpose, wisdom, truth, love, even the very face of God, my engagement begs an entirely different question, namely: have I missed the truths I’ve sought by focusing solely upon arriving at some destination rather than upon the journey itself? Have I failed to grant life a chance due to my insistence upon defining it within my own parameters, rather than upon its own expression? Where comes my obstinance in maintaining that suffering must serve some metamorphic transformation which raises consciousness and compassion and the experiential condition of the sentient? Why must I be so ego-driven that I am offended at Life’s failure to submit to my so-called “reasonable” terms and criteria as well as by its refusal to grant audience to address my grievances? If I can be forgiven this folly, it would be on the basis that my ignorance is driven not solely by regard for self, but also from a benevolence of soul and a curious, even analytical mindset.

So, it is not merely the failure to adapt to more brutish, data-driven analytical ideologies, but rather my abject refusal to fucking play at all. Whether it is the cursed blessing of a creative spirit forever envisioning how life ought to be, or the blessed curse of being a spiritual being with a sensitive, connected soul, or just some inanely immature, wholly impractical romantic, idealistic control freak, or the combination of all three: in the end I have to embrace the absurd, farcical journey that is my life, not because I or it has any merit except for this: though reviled, I loved; though ridiculed, I showed compassion; though cheated, I gave generously; though disparaged, I praised. Neither successes nor failures define me or my worth. I took notice of even the diminutive beauties of this world, and tread on them not.

tiny wild violet

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