The compound mysteries of the universe seem so base when we view them through the eyes and hear them through the ears of others. Looking out at the cosmos can only be described along the premise of words that have been used by others in the past ‘vast, magnificent, deep, dark…’ We are so impenetrably content to continue along the cliché’s set out before us. Our competence measured only by what we can reproduce rather than what we can produce. The finalities of ‘objectivity’ often prove disconcerting - it is rather taxing to discover that the human composite is broader and simultaneously more bracketed than any other species on the planet. We are a confounded race, denounced by our perfections and announced by our imperfections. Only a mirage of preconceived notions and sell-out sycophants can survive on the basis of copying over creating.
It is a parallel of impossibility. To know not what becomes of the mind and binds the soul to precepts and concepts that need outside sponsorship. For some reason it is never enough for us human beings to believe in something unless we can convince others to do the same. An abstract collage of ‘wills’ and ‘wont’s’ does nothing to dispel the notion that we are no more than our compound being - perhaps not even a little. By and large we do not exist beyond the dust that forms us and the ideas that free us.
Any idea travels its very own, intrinsic wormhole before it is complete, indeed, if it ever is so. If every new thought holds its premise in an old thought or interconnected thought and if every new idea is layered with the undertones of logic, creativity and time – how does ‘creation’ take place? A more apt description would be re-creation and that too, over lifetimes and lifeless lines. According to Plato, an artist is quite passive during the act of creation. Indeed the artist is quite literally in the grips of the creative process. Such an account of creativity hardly flatters the artist. Not only is the artist’s ‘activity' inherently passive but the responsibility for creation is transferred elsewhere. Thereby, underlining the age-old gap that frames the un-availed transit between the Philosopher and the Artist – a reluctant admiration but a discord in algorithms. Generally speaking it is the formers dependence on logic and boundaries and the latter’s disdain for them that separate these two tangents.
A true Artist is a romantic in either parody or principle and a true Philosopher is a realist in both. Many have called it the unbridgeable gap even though many have tried to cross the divide by taking what is politely termed as the ‘middle route’. This approach in itself poses a problem, is the middle route merely another layer of sheep skin that allows mankind to fit in with the herd and adapt, or is it the ‘meant to be’ we long for? If not, and that is a big ‘if’ and a bigger ‘not’, than the absolutes are the only ones who have the courage to be themselves regardless of the consequences. In a manner of speaking, they are the only ones willing to retain the ground carved out for them over centuries of stigma.
It is so tragic that there is little room for ideas left in this world. Ideologies have replaced ideas and tyrannical idioms have replaces idylls. We are a nation of sheep, my friends. Even the Lions and Wolves no longer recognise themselves.
We are followers of followers of followers, not a confounded leader in sight!
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