TRANSCENDENT SCEPTICISM
The Place of the Soul.
(Or beings in search of their souls.)
Where is the beautiful, the possessive, the good and the transcendent to be found? Inside or outside? Inside the outside or outside the inside? Who should be your guide? Maybe what is an easier answer, light is omnipresent, it's colours suffocating with meaning. Maybe the smell, or nothing of the above but the fact of bringing to life something long dead, like making a garden in the desert, that's where the soul lives. But what is the soul? Is the image of what you most desire and least want to look? Is it what you cast away as a child? A child in the desert, hungry for pleasure and play, the birthplace of meaning, is that the image of your soul? What is most deserted of meaning than the modern city? Where is our childish self hiding? Where do we least want to look?
The Abandoned Inside, or the Saturated Outside.
We are drawn to what is no longer among us, we are drawn to what is dead and has a life of its own, hidden, forgotten, abandoned. Is it to kill what it is or to bring to life what it was? Maybe to kill what it is with what it was and drown the pain of our existence in it’s blood. But how can we kill what never was, or bring to life what always is? Maybe through innocent play, death becomes a mother and meaning and beauty are her children. Children grow, and play and forget, and they kill in order to grow, and they forget in order to live, but they always play, is that what justifies and gives meaning to their existence? Is that what allows the rivers of blood to keep flowing? Maybe blood is the only thing that can make a garden grow in the desert.
The Mirage in the Desert.
The image of the soul can be a mirage in the meaningless desert of existence, but it happening is as real as anything. When starving for meaning, meaninglessness can disguise as nourishment, how can we then trust our senses during our existence in the desert? What oasis should nourish our thirst? We might die of thirst chasing meaningless shadows of what’s real in empty lands, should we not dig our own well then, and nourish ourselves in it’s riches? He who chases the shadow is the one who spills his own blood to settle his thirst, but he who digs a well in the middle of the desert, grows a garden from his blood and makes the mirage a living thing.
The Place of the Garden.
We know the place of the garden, and the flowers it grows, but we’re unwilling to provide them nourishment. Life kills in order to live, unwatched, unattended, in it’s blind ambition, the beautiful becomes it’s victim. Seeds for growth are not to be found in meaningless sacrifice, and yet, death makes a void for the garden and for the smell of its flowers. But children and gardens do not go well together, play is disinterested and cruel, the beauty falls it’s victim. What is it then that should die, for beauty to live ? From its ashes what often rises is a beautiful yet meaningless existence, an adult walking among the flowers, a child playing on concrete, an endless pit separating them, yet play acts as a bridge.