Words deserted me, Where are you going? Why have you left me, now? I need to tell this story in the utmost eloquent tone, the devil is in the details, how to say absence without the very scary thought of it? How can I look up to the man I envision if I haven't looked down on the one I've been?
We tend to look back in order to find the answers of now, but now and then share interchangeable, malleable affinities. It's an optical illusion to perceive others and the world at large as separate from us; in essence, everything is one. A similar illusion occurs with time: we see it as past, present and/or future, but all that has ever taken place, all that is and has been, is nothing more than one singularity.
It's no wonder that whenever we go about finding answers about this phenomenon we find ourselves immersed, nicknamed life, and want to explain the universe at large, we use math; words are vague, subjective, they reflect a unique experience that in the eyes of the beholder hold little, if any, resemblance to the truth. We learn that there's no such a thing as "truth", it's some made-up word, and the word in and of itself lacks any meaning other than the one given by the individual. At work, times of leisure are filled with moments where I search the web, go on Facebook, listen to music, take walks outside, eat some, basically "nothing." I do the same sort of nothingness at home, and yet there are differences between the two even though both stem from the same nothing-like sort. It's one thing, and the other, and it's the same but not really.
We do what we do, disguising the doing from the being, then find that we have been doing the same thing over and over again yet a brand-new different being in being. And only when we realize that this moment really is all we have for creativity, that it has a thunderbolt past and a recurring future tense, we get the feeling that we're often reminiscing on things to come that have been long gone. For how long is this present moment really present for? And then if we dig deep and capture the essence of now, we find ourselves in the perennial layers of maybe, do something outrageous and frivolous to appease the ego, talk shit about it when stuff gets finally, or eventually, done with or done for. And it's not that we miss great things, life isn't just what happens when we're busy making plans, as John Lennon once said, but also in the indivisible landscapes forged when we are planning. See, planning it's like a seed, it requires patience, water, sun, good soil, and Lennon here reminds us of the forest that surrounds us. In planning, great things unravel, invisible worlds pop in and out of existence, as we may abandon one idea and become fixated with another. That's when great things start to happen. Realizing that in between the moments that have passed us by and the great ones awaiting us, lies all that is possible, in the here and now that soon become then and there. In this paradigm, we are architects, no less, so let's edify something worth, that will echo through eternity, as that most manly of films, Gladiator, says.
It's no wonder that whenever we go about finding answers about this phenomenon we find ourselves immersed, nicknamed life, and want to explain the universe at large, we use math; words are vague, subjective, they reflect a unique experience that in the eyes of the beholder hold little, if any, resemblance to the truth. We learn that there's no such a thing as "truth", it's some made-up word, and the word in and of itself lacks any meaning other than the one given by the individual. At work, times of leisure are filled with moments where I search the web, go on Facebook, listen to music, take walks outside, eat some, basically "nothing." I do the same sort of nothingness at home, and yet there are differences between the two even though both stem from the same nothing-like sort. It's one thing, and the other, and it's the same but not really.
We do what we do, disguising the doing from the being, then find that we have been doing the same thing over and over again yet a brand-new different being in being. And only when we realize that this moment really is all we have for creativity, that it has a thunderbolt past and a recurring future tense, we get the feeling that we're often reminiscing on things to come that have been long gone. For how long is this present moment really present for? And then if we dig deep and capture the essence of now, we find ourselves in the perennial layers of maybe, do something outrageous and frivolous to appease the ego, talk shit about it when stuff gets finally, or eventually, done with or done for. And it's not that we miss great things, life isn't just what happens when we're busy making plans, as John Lennon once said, but also in the indivisible landscapes forged when we are planning. See, planning it's like a seed, it requires patience, water, sun, good soil, and Lennon here reminds us of the forest that surrounds us. In planning, great things unravel, invisible worlds pop in and out of existence, as we may abandon one idea and become fixated with another. That's when great things start to happen. Realizing that in between the moments that have passed us by and the great ones awaiting us, lies all that is possible, in the here and now that soon become then and there. In this paradigm, we are architects, no less, so let's edify something worth, that will echo through eternity, as that most manly of films, Gladiator, says.
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