The Other Side

Here stands a mirror that reflects all that was, is and will come to be.
Here is a mirror of all reflections, but at a closer look, the perfected images we see waver, and a distorted view of the world remains. Where we stop, others go on. It is as it should be.

Things happen, things break. I had much time on my hands. I looked at the pile of books waiting to be read in a corner, collecting dust on their clean covers. I picked one and almost finished reading it. As always, I’m left with the feeling that I haven’t had enough time yet to digest what I think I may have understood for myself.

Am I here to make friends? Am I here to matter in reality? I think not.

Am I here to make an impact? Maybe.

What would frighten me most would be to have an impact that was more negative than anything else... because I know now that I have a conscience, and that unfathomable notion is crucial, or so I feel. I never want for one split second to forget humanity, and the intricate meaning that it holds. Perspective is perhaps another crucial element needed when one attempts to make sense of the world. Without it, it isn’t long before one is caught putting that world into boxes that are flawed in some ways. Without it, we might as well be blind, or become so in the long run.
Perspective, patience and... Something else... These two are part of the key to true understanding, and they complete each other.

These strong emotions we feel within, this heart, as we call it; I have a hard time accepting the possibility that they would end after a mere lifetime, as though one life in itself in the greater scheme of Time was no more than an unimportant drop added to a sea whose current is random, has no aim.

The world in which we grow up and live... Everything seems to have a clear purpose, whether we have managed to find out what that purpose is or not in regards to particular things that exist. From animals, to birds, fish and insects; from the tiny rosebud to the ancient tree that stands mighty; all seem to complete another in a circle of life that carries on existing through a very well composed symbiosis of Life. And then comes us. Blessed or cursed by this mighty ability to think and question, we wander about this land, and everything that surrounds us seems to hold some meaning or purpose that we can find for ourselves; whether it is the purpose of things that we make ourselves (a chair to sit in, a cup to drink from, a house with a roof to shield us from the cold and rain...) or the discovery that the reason it rains is to allow plants to grow, for instance, or that the reason the heart beats is to allow blood to flow through the body and organs.

It seems that as we wander about upon this land, most things can be found to hold some meaning, except for ourselves. We keep on unveiling the meaning or purpose of all things around, yet our own meaning or purpose still escapes us.

The best we have are guesses and thoughts.

Theories.

Beliefs.

But nothing as factual as the purpose of bees feeding on flowers so that they can at the same time carry away their seeds to allow more flowers to exist.

We are left to dither endlessly, and we are forced to make up our own meanings and purposes, a sense of the latter at least. Somehow. Isn’t language the greatest attempt of all to bring meaning into our lives? Yet I am sure that words can never truly give justice to the thoughts we wish to express, or the impressions, or the feelings... They are ‘better than nothing’. Mere shadows of true meaning and bound to spawn more misunderstanding.

I stir clear from books and others’ writings for as long as I can, trying as I do to let my own thinking come forth before I confront my words and thoughts with that of others before me. I come with nothing new. Everything that does come from me - for I thought it for myself through my own reasoning at times, but not always, of course- has been thought before, and often through the use of better, clearer words or images. Most philosophical thoughts I’ve had have been reflected on before. Does that make my own reflections redundant or does that point at something deeper?

I like sciences, and I like to learn more about this world we live in. I find the quest for true knowledge most enthralling, to say the least. What I question is the place knowledge of the external world takes. The importance it is given, especially nowadays, where science is thought to be the means to all answers that we seek. More than a means, it becomes the end goal. If one can master all sciences to their fullest, one can hope to live longer, healthier, etc... That’s only one example.

But I keep wondering: who would want that? Why should I want to remain here for as long as I possibly can, afraid and angry that my time on Earth is bound to end at some point or other?

If there is an end - and human life holds quite a limited living time- then looking at the greater scheme of things or taking a bird’s eye view tells me that hanging onto dear life that might last 100 years if I’m lucky, is missing the point entirely.

What I mean is this: Time always flows in reality. It never stops, not even for a moment, binding us all to a constant present that becomes our past almost at the same time as the present is. The future is nonexistent, it is only a word invented to express the notion of what is to come and which we, thinking creatures, get to envision as a notion in our mind. There is only that present mixing with the past, rushing toward the unknown of future (though we may plan that future, it remains intrinsically unknown until it is there to be lived in the present). The present in itself lasts less than a second in time, meaning that most of our living time is constantly being engulfed in the past.

Such is the endless course of time that living to 100, or even to 1000 would mean quite little in the end, for all that our lives really are about are memories. I think to myself, if I get to 100 and look back, what will I see but an ocean of memories, and what could make me want to carry on living beyond that in a world where all I really am is past already? The only point I can see in such a cycle of life bound by Time is the possibility this gives us to grow and learn.

Spending time doing anything else is pointless, because I simply cannot make myself believe that this life on this land is the real one. It is the one where I learn to be me, and I learn to be my own person, hopefully the best I can be, and in doing so I hope to find the meaning of Life in the end.

I come to that conclusion because, mainly, we can find no true meaning or purpose for ourselves in this reality, but there must be one, except it has little to do with materiality, and everything to do with inner struggles and self-discovery.

Whether one starts off their inner journey by pondering the existence of a God, or by looking into themselves first, it seems that all routes eventually lead to the same point. Something bigger, something almost so intense that there can be no human word to describe it: the notion of something higher, perhaps what men decided to call God. Sublime perfection no human has ever really managed to grasp.

Oneness.