Posts tagged with “philosophy”
You, the reference
God created an universe of quanta, physics says. It is said that the reason dominates the consequence in value, and the lower the level organisation is, the close it is to the final truth. In a perfect world we would dig this mine until we eventually obtain that one fundamental level of Creation and be happy proclaiming science being a complete knowledge. Yet, the more we learn, the more likely this search seems to be infinite in the purest meaning of the word. There just may happen not to be any principal base point and the onion of the matter structure nesting may propagate in both directions just indefinitely. In all this complexity I am frequently lost. Head carried away by the wild kaleidoscope of deep philosophy and just false thoughts, I helplessly slip down on my knees struggling to regain the assurance of being a human. Give me a hand and let me declare you the ultimate reference.
You can trace all your thoughts and actions back to biological origin. By sequential application of natural science of various level you can decompose but everything within your mind into a long chain of causal relations, unless you get unluckily trapped into the quantum paradoxes. Conscience, character, feeling — all forged in neural plexi as a complex reaction on stimuli. Every a your deed can probably be predicted, yet in all this behavioural noise I can sketch out your soul, an essence of yours, if you would, whether it exists as a separate entity or not. For if I am how can you not be per se? Cogito ergo sum and therefore you are as well by the same logic. Finally, I just want to lift all the view angle resolution away. I just want you to be my reference point.
All I ask you is to be. To be real. To be my world.
05:39 | Comments | Tags: science, madness, math, love, quantum physics, philosophy, public, personalTimelessness and Rust
Your worst foe is rust. You should probably have imagined those reddish deposits on some piece of metal? Trust me, rust knows not a single face. Right hand of the time itself does it manifest itself as the aging mangles the prettiest of faces, as the purest passion entangled in a cage of boredom and habbit, as anything of beauty slowly decays to its horrific demise. Rust makes matter and thought rot from the very inside, decomposes any ordering back to primal chaos. Order, chaos, those two are always in conflict, right?
Natural, you say? Think, just think! You are alive, and that already defines your side choice in that neverending struggle. Life creates form, life promotes meaningfullness, life reduces entropy, unlife tries dissolve any shape into an uniform whole. Over millions of years we have developed a handful of tools to retain our organisation safe from all the attacks of rust. Before one is torn asunder by the forces of aggressive natural physics, they pass to their offspring a safe keycode, sufficient to recreate all order previously achieved but fallen victim to time. With sentience, we brought that tactic to unbelievable heights, preserving not only our biological form, but also knowledge, invention and art — safe from rust's hungry fangs. Still, what we do, is but a defense. How about a counter strike?
What do we have to offer against the rust? One obvious solution is an everyday stubborn labour, a wise advice from The Little Prince, baobabs, their seeds and stuff. I shall not attack that aproach in full, I find it one honourable and righteous deed to do, however, with time being the nemesis, that effort may at best delay the inevitable still not fight back the culprit behid the rusting. The time benefits from a nice headstart, no matter how persistent we may work on ourselves. Time operates everywhere at once, a throughput not even theoretically achievable by us, being a subset of that “everywhere”, in fact, time will for ever be some steps ahead. But what then?
You, being gifted with mind are given that eternal riddle upon birth. You are to either solve it during what lifespan you are generously given by the heritage of your struggling ancestors or share their doom, still passing hope for the generations to come. Sooner or later, the intellect shall prevail. When we separate the beauty from the rot, when we manage to sever ties with rusting and transcede over the time itself, we might well prove to God we are, after all, worth having been created in His image.
11:15 | Comments | Tags: philosophy, public, math, rustOn Eyesight
It's a late night already as the light of your lamp pierces the darkness of the attic. Here I am, cowering in a corner, the easel left alone. You would approach me and hug, you sleepy and warm, with a cat resting on your shoulder. I am no weakling as a matter of fact, I have endured the incredible odds not even leaving a scratch on my resistant skin. Still, your loving touch is a cruical piece of my wellbeing's puzzle. It is what ignites me and grants power multiplied by infinity. And at the moment, I am in time of need, trembling with unrest, however still strong as a rock. I sense your sympathy as you glance into my eyes, all tired, red with blood and radiant with hysteria and craze. You pity me, but…
Your eyes are perfect. A pinnacle of sight development, they let no fine detail escape your attention. You see the world as it is supposed to be and no blur or delusion stirs your perception. Yet in all their splendor, they do lack. They trap you, binding the view to a narrow abstraction level, a grand mirage and only the tiny and subjective projection of the universe that's more commonly knowns as the real world. My optic, though not a bad one, is not even a close match to yours, however, exploiting its flaws allows me to break free of the reality prison. Impression, fantasy, dreams and hallucinations, I let them in and in a sense, I see them as realistically that sometimes I reach my hand to touch.
Alas, I cannot imbue you with the ways of my perception. You are told to be beautiful and you acknowledge this when looking in a mirror, matching your reflected image against the notion of good looks. What I mean by your beaty is far more deep than physical appearance. A symphony and a storm of colours, melodies and shapes mixed against the perception forms mankind have not invented words for, that's how I see you. What I am able to express is yet a particle of whole, but still it transcedes the photography by a great margin. I adapt my inner self to your rules and sight, essentialy bridging together the real and the spiritual. In my words, in my music, in my drawings you sense a surrealistic dream, a wounded mind's product, a glamorous nonsense. But in fact, I draw you in all your magnificence, and with time you shall realize that. That is the exactly revernce you seek in me and that is why we complement each other so nicely.
07:18 | Comments | Tags: self-analysis, melancholic, personal, public, philosophy, quantum physics, loveWhat if I speak riddles?
What if I pronounce red as scarlet in my mind? Would you suspect I am lying to you if I talked as pathetic as if I have just quit the pages of Renaissance-age play? How about me talking English instead of mother tongue simply out of the love for beauty, rather than some weird elitionist pretense? Have you noticed I favour for above because even in colloquial speech? Am I insincere if I handpick my little friends from dictionary to match the sound of a synonym with the timbre of emotion the soul is feeling? How come sometimes you translate a poem in though to prose in speech?
Bear with me, for that is the way I am supposed to be. The roots, in fact, are traced with ease: you take a melancholic to ensure turbulent reactions for the slightest stimuli; you grant him the artist skills, the inner sense of harmony and beauty, of style and comme il faut; season him with a good intellect and any creational abilities, no matter be it painter's eye, sculptor's fingers or engineering thought — et voilà! the dish is made. At once, that is a gift and handicap, being a potential machine of invention while being a constant riddle to the close. People eat potato every one day, but to bake, say, a complex cake, a special occasion is a promoter. Countrary to Shakespeare, nobody wants to live within the stage, while most would love to admire it. Time to time. You see where am I heading to?
Since this day I declare you, my reader, the victim of the focused fire. The sophistication of thought is a valuable trait indeed, therefore I'm not allowing it to go the way of dodo. Instead, I shall forsake this journal for no longer. Whenever I feel high, no matter the reason, I am to redirect the flow onto these very pages. Just as the water spins the wheel, will these outbursts serve better purpose rather than complicating the life of those whom I care for.
11:56 | Comments | Tags: melancholic, philosophy, personal, public, self-analysis