“Universe”

I often find myself pondering at the meaning of words, their origins. I enjoy those philosophical/contemplative novel words, the things you won’t exactly find in a dictionary, words like wonderwall, sonder, pluviophile, nyctophile, philophobia, etc.

Still other words, literary or archaic, that also would not be so much used in everyday life, tend to my thought and attention, words like hamartia, pseudo-intellectual (yes, Woody Allen!), pedantic, etc.

And there is also a third category of words that I like. It is that which encompasses the words that mean one thing, but also a whole other, deeper, thing. And of those words to me, stems the “universe”.

I like to believe the word universe describes, aside from the mystery of our vast, complex, changing but constant world, the context of a single verse, that summarizes the world-universe. A uni-verse for the universe.

But then again, what words of wisdom so short as to not exceed a single verse, could wholly satisfy the cataclysm that is our world?

I do not know, and I do not pretend to.

But the thought of a uni-verse still drives my thoughts, knowing still, that though the truth is not found, it must exist.

The existense of truth is in itself, a truth. That will be my truth, that will be my justice, my solace until I find a fuller answer.

“For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.”
-Arthur O’Shaughnessy, excerpt “from Ode”

Real World: Dreamworld

I sometimes like to imagine my entire life is a dream.
I think it gives me a sense of security, that somehow, deep down, I can control my world, except that I simply don’t know how.

I think it keeps me at bay from the more likely, more frightening reality of a world that’s completely out of control, out of mind, careless to throw me at the rocks as the waves that rush to a rocky shore, with time the harsh waters, and fate the fickle winds that blow upon them.

On that thought though, if my life really were a dream, I think I’d diagnose my subconscious with quite a masochistic tendency.

(P.S.: Please don’t interpret that last line too literally haha)

Photo credit: InAweofGod’sCreation / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)

On the Meaning of Humanity

“Non nobis solum nati sumus.”
(Not for ourselves alone are we born.)
-Cicero

We must first assert that man has a natural inclination to fulfill his purpose, that is, to help others, just as a mother has a natural inclination to protect and care for her young.

But when in the wake of human consciousness, man decides to smite his fellows, there dies within him a certain distinguishing characteristic, a certain longing for the beautiful, the righteous, and the compassionate.

Men go to war with themselves before war with others, and erode the perfection withheld by the innocent child they once were, so as not to preclude their acts of unkindness.

We are most human when humanitarian, but when all humanitarian aspects of the human heart and mind have been eroded, when man loses his soul and the charitable purpose of existence, can he still be deemed… human?

A Forgotten Fleet

This text can be categorized as ‘inspired writing’, for the reason that it was written through one single burst of inspiration, with the┬ámy inability to understand┬ámy own writing up until completion.
Such forms were common among the Ancient Greeks, where the words were commonly attributed to oracles rather than poets.
My personal interpretation of this phenomenon is that of a mind which speaks freely to itself as the conscious entity eavesdrops on the inner conversation.
Not to keep you waiting, the text:

They left us here by the shore, a forgotten fleet. And slow, we knew the path, a path down the earth that led to the heavens.

We came here blinded, like men under siege, and when blinds were lifted, all was deceived.

There came us a fellow, he spoke like a toad, and yet my dear fellow, he spoke us the truth. There came with him woman, of greatest physique, of beauty none greater, and eyes none more deep.

And though she called me dreamer, we were all the same. In that little place, we called it an island, we did not know others, the others were we.

There once was a man, forgotten and lost, he found himself with us, and part of us lost.

And though we did know him, he knew not himself, and self did not know him, like souls that run steep.

Photo credit: h.koppdelaney / Foter.com / CC BY-ND