Wednesday, April 13, 2005

The point

Much of modern philosophising tries to establish some point in the very pointlessness of life, of anything. He doesn’t see any. There is really no secret, nothing lying at the centre waiting to be revealed. There is no destination, only another road at the end of the road. The same onion story.

Why does he go on living, then?

Largely, because he is stuck with life. The switching cost to non-life is too high.

Now that he is stuck, what does he do to bide his time?

Create a point. Chimerical, but nonetheless…

Isn't that what we all do? Isn't that the only thing everyone ever does?

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

The revolution

Sometimes she hates her shadow. She wants to run away from it. Then she flies. She flies over lands and hills and lakes and seas. She feels the warmth of sunlight on her wings. She knows that just like her, her shadow is also running with her along the lands and hills and lakes and the seas. But she cannot see her shadow. She takes comfort in her distance from her shadow. (Is that how I think about independence? He thinks.) But as the sun begins to scorch her wings, as all the lands start looking the same shade of vacuous grey, her tired feathers pine for the coolness of her shadow. She disagrees with her senses, but she knows that there is no escape. The shadow, like death, stalks her. It tempts her with its motherly shade. She gives in, and even bows to it. Because she knows that some time she has to. And, with night, it engulfs her. Maybe, it may just be, that we all love death when it comes. And every revolution is doomed at birth.

He is appalled at this verbosity. More so, because it is pointless. But was there ever a point anyway?