EVERYTHING IS AN ILLUSION
March 26, 2010 § 14 Comments
The repeated melancholic voices are irritating. They continue despite every effort of mine. I am writing this, without knowing why. Sometimes the best way to dispense away with something is to face it. And this probably is the only way I can face it.
The guild of voices resonate and ricochet merry-less in the stupor. The sun’s streaks through the window and the colloidal streams fail to kindle any sense of zest. The very media chosen to express my disdain lacks the boisterous spirit of that which runs it. The fact that a thought in the head of some man or woman lies behind every doormat, duster or digits fails to provoke awe.
This I figure might be normalcy. Finally the crows don’t symbolize the nature nor do the mosquitoes seem a matter of interest. A bucket of water, is no more an apparatus for experimentation. And the only thing that can numb the quaint piquancy of a fantabolous mind are the works of another.
The fact that thoughts can be enslaved only by other thoughts, doesn’t escape me. But mere knowledge doesn’t provide indemnity. Knowledge puts the possessor through worse tests. Of knowingly having to give up, of carving a niche, where you happen to be the accompli , when you can see mens rea and yet keep a straight visage leads to precocity, wont or not doesn’t really matter.
Time has weathered the race as much as it has parched the Saharas and grown the Himalayas. Yet the very time is too great to perceive. Whether it is to kick the planets a few degrees so as to make the charts more pretty or to cause a comet to fall at the death of a Caesar, you cannot do it.
It menacingly trots along, it’s heart beating like the waves, origins unknown yet with treasures plenty. The Cryptic chronicler it is, which strikes the senses and causes palpitations. I would at this stage and time in this endless memory of the universe, like to let a thought fly and in gratuitously commendable audacity I proceed so.
Lines don’t mean an end, but the beginning. The horizon is not an end, but where the earth and sky supposedly seemingly meet. Yet, that very convergence, oblique yet surprisingly tangential, is nothing more than illusion. For a knife-edge to exist you need a knife. And that knife cannot cut and create or cruelly kill without being in the same plane of existence.
And if everything lies in the same plane, then in truth their identity must purport a single origin. For without the work of a man, the edge cannot be sharpened and shortened to suit the need. And we, another from such a plane operate and dissect our chosen subject, we stand on the edge and wonder which way to choose.
The choice is an illusion. Simply because we need them both. You cannot cut white and black and choose one. Merely because you paint a wall white, doesn’t mean black has been rejected. And if you look beyond, colours are a product of the mind, which conveniently exercises it’s supposed right.
By extending this argument(albeit hastily concluded, but never the less will be valid on further exploration), I propose everything is an illusion. And that one object quantifies itself into three. Think carefully and you will notice the presence of this trinity(so to speak).
If everything is convened and dissipated by one singular force, then why do we go on? What is, simply put, the “purpose of life”. As time tilts the axes and changes the seasons and trepidations are nurtured and peace squandered and revived from the ashes of fallen cities, men have grown beards, women have touched their eyebrows and children have cried louder.
Yet every time someone nears the vantage point, the vintage time delicately plays and acts. This as every one of our kind knows is “maya”. If such a force albeit not figuring in the laurels of science gravitates the course of life. And if trinity is a conclusion, then we have the object and maya. Thus maya, is nothing more than another aspect of that final object.
Life then can be assumed to be the third. There is then a border less, connection. Where the sky and earth meet, is not the end, but the beginning, where we need to try to see, what really is this plane of existence.
What is more provocative is the fact this life, has supposedly thrived at a mere whim. While it seems fine to depict the object as “God”, it doesn’t seem pragmatic to make such a supreme force visceral in judgement and ambiguous is predicaments. It serves no purpose to supposedly play with dolls when you know the inside out of it.
And all this seems every more senseless, when it is you. Make this supreme creature human and he/she/it seems sadistic, crass and perverted. But by general conclusion it is not. For after all, such a creature/being/entity, isn’t going to allow me to say these things, if indeed it was as bad as deemed.
So what then is this one? Logically it seems crazy and almost unthinkable to think that you don’t know who you are. But fascinatingly that is the question we arrive at. So then, is this a question of the hand trying to find the body’s identity, only that it can’t because it doesn’t have a brain?
If so, maybe that is what life is heading towards, self-realization and actualization. Maybe we should consider the edges, the duality that naturally exists as a lock. The key being, seeing beyond the cleavage, so to speak. “But then why the hell all this?” you belligerently ask.
Maybe the hand does the work of the head, for the rest of the benefits. But imagine if all this is an illusion and everything is one, then surely what is the purpose of that one?
If I find an answer to all this, I will let you know. I was feeling bored 😛