Thursday, January 21, 2010

Surrealist Ranting

What does the heavy heart carry to make it weigh so deep within our bodies?

The cares & concerns of our lives seem meaningless in the greater scheme of things, yet still we rage against the perceived scope of ourselves to make that whispered pin-drop in the galaxy. We frantic, and desperate, and multitudinous marching across the face of the Earth, like insects, like ants. Will the monuments we build last through ages? Or will the weapons we create destroy all memory of our existence?

When the world is older than the long-beards of wrinkled men, will jungles & vine reclaim the land where strip-malls once stood? Can the brick & mortar stand up to a steady wear of Time's many grains of sand? The hollow, steel-boned buildings left like the fossils of so many great beasts, will they be our testaments? When some far, distant civilization comes to our planet, will they wonder at our architecture and ask, "what was this... humanity?"

Our world spins like a great flywheel, ever turning, as if to mirror the hands of a clock, and with each second, with each full rotation, our lives flicker briefly before they burn-out completely. And when they extinguish, what's left but ashes? What's left but the memories? Fleeting, intangible, chimeric. Our fire is dim as a werelight, and fades oh-so quickly. Was it a mistake to survive when it only makes the final whimper of humankind that much more bittersweet?

In the quiet contemplation of a single solitary member of our species, these feelings of dread are not idle thoughts, or the dramatic angst of youth. They are not the overly-academic pursuits of a privileged class, or the esoteric fears of imaginative doubt.

They are the concrete despair that when this great experiment is done being conducted it will be deemed frivolous, and shall not pass this way again. This is the rational anxiety that... Life, is one great big joke, and yet, not a one of us is laughing.

Except we few, we happy few! Who perceive the irony, and with cynical tears cry. The kind of cry that comes out strangely, so that in fact it does sound like laughing. And we have not stopped, such that our sobs turn into chuckles, our moans into giggles, and our wails into guffaws. In the Trophonian cave, we forgot how to, but once we perceived the world outside Plato's cavern, we remembered how to laugh our cries, and have not stopped laughing ever since.

Will this too be a redundant waste of time? A feeble attempt to rouse the collective subconscious to realize its own imminent demise... The deepest truths are like water, and occupy dark places men despise. Yet if we do not descend into these hells for answers, what then will become of our questions? What then will become of ourselves?

We will disappear, without even a sound to mark the passing of humanity's great age, like dud sparklers on the universe's stage.

We must become like the pilgrim-poet. Like Dante or Virgil or Odysseus, we must become travelers, troubadours, we must become... something else, wanderers with purpose.

But why is it always so? Why is the relatively present never content enough? Is comfortable a concept we can only reach through pursuit, yet never truly achieve? Why must things be thus?

Past the tempered night, I perceive a curtain encircling the starless sky, as if a great blanket were laid upon us. The stitching is thread-bare and the cotton is wearing thin, but still it holds. Is to be covered an ignorance or defense mechanism? Do we hide for fault or for security?

There a torrent of words strewn across the neurological pathways which make up my brain -- like roadblocks. These words are getting in the way of my understanding, but without them I know of no way to understand. When does comprehension transcend language? Probably never. I am not so evolved as that.

But I do get lost in my thoughts. They give me the creeps. They give me nightmares I'll never remember because somehow I've lost the ability to recall the subconscious adventures of Ego, Id, and Super. Somehow, my mind decided it was neither good nor proper for me to remember what I think about while I'm asleep. Yet, I wake up each day knowing that I did dream, and from the rush of blood to the sense of dread indicate something ominous at least.

Till memory recovers its courage, I guess I'll have to settle for wondering and wandering.


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