A Pleasant Reflection
my mood is one with the world
The world stands stunningly before me. Every reflection is like an ode to her grace and beauty. Everything in life is but a prelude to her praise. I’m so happy to look upon the blue sky, intermingled with white clouds, and smile upon all the good fortune and pleasure my life currently has. It is a wonderful thing to relate everything back to my own experience and to connect each sensation with a greater one still.
Typically, it is lamented in writing that, unless you have some somber thought born out of unbearable misery, you have nothing interesting to say. I can’t begin to express my disagreement with such a view. It’s hard to even know where to start with such a gross and ignorant account of life. I have always been of the opinion that those with grey moods relate more easily to others, because the basis of mundane existence is one of either innocuousness or struggle; thus, the mood which moves the hand to pen the vicious truth is always more agreeable and understandable—relatable even—for we all know how boring mere breathing and anxiety can be.
But such greyness hits too close to home when I feel as I do now. It hurts too much to agree with Schopenhauer when he said:
There is some wisdom in taking a gloomy view, in looking upon the world as a kind of Hell, and in confining one's efforts to securing a little room that shall not be exposed to the fire.
—Counsels and Maxims
At present, I wish not to build a room that shall comfort me, or that shall protect me from whatever the world may throw my way. I wish, rather, for the fire to consume me completely—and to come away from it with the burn scars smiling, knowing that such was necessary for the sake of my soul. My soul blooms at the thought.
I will admit that writing is a lot easier when depressed, but that is only because the world is so plentiful in occurrences of that sort. All one needs to do is turn their head around the corner and see for themselves, in all its glory, just how monstrous and debilitating existence is. But what does all this misery do for one? Assuredly, unless you are a writer, painter, or artist, there is hardly any benefit from maintaining this view always, constantly, consistently, deliberately. To be truthful at all times, or to seek only what is honest from the moral standpoint, shows a clear lack of any real understanding into the human character.
What does it mean to be human? It is to question everything, and to build an understanding of the world from your own perspective. I’m here in the world—so far as I know it—to be a defender of truth: of real TRUTH; not merely the vague notions we have of collective agreement or deductions from premises, but truth as a subjective phenomenon. The upbuilding discourses of the world all happen without our participation. I feel most stumble through life, rather than obtain a clarity of thought that allows them to walk upright and unrestrained—to be untethered from any false notion of what is; to be clear in our understanding of ourselves; to, at last, obtain a point of view that corresponds not with reality, but with our own reality.
If any advancement could be put forth in the most perspicacious manner possible, it would be an undeniable boon to all humanity that the purpose of our lives is: to seek from the source of one’s own mind what it is they are to get right with themselves in their relation to the world at large. If a Shakespeare could just appear in our present age and awaken people to the inner power of their existence, it would be an innovation on par with that of electricity and writing.
I wonder what Kierkegaard would think of my labors currently. Are they even comparable in poetic beauty or brute honesty? Does anyone at present even know how to communicate what they feel in such a sterile and tone-deaf age such as our own? Where is the irony and humor in everything? If there is any, it certainly resides in areas either unbeknownst to the rest of mankind or requires interpretations of present political events that, on their face, are either absurd or barbaric.
If one were to undertake an investigation into the meaning of existence, they would instantly find that most of our attention is given up to things of very little worth, or on things that remain impossible under the current realities of life. Our own realities are one thing, but they are to, regrettably, always remain checked by things that are impossible to break through. The natural state of inequality and the continuous barriers placed upon us by our material conditions will always serve as the gnawing gnat behind our heads; and to break out of this system will be impossible unless we can find a unified message to rally around, and which to deem important enough to fight for.
Life seems to me a great enough burden, but it is a burden we all share. I find great comfort in knowing that the common inequities we face are enough to unify around. The plight of the working class was enough for Marx. Why should the same not be followed today, only altered by what challenges we face now? I’m not an idealist, but rather a hypocritical optimist. I love to speak of the coming doom and destruction while at the same time having a gleeful aspect throughout it all. It’s just the kind of person I am. I have always found more delight in being hopeful when there is none, rather than being an academic hermit who speaks only in declarative statements.
People want answers. I’m only here to provide consolation. I have never thought that the solutions to life are all to be found in a single synthesis, a single mode of reckoning which outputs the same answers always—rather, what needs to be had is a holistic, perennial, I dare say ecumenical, approach, which stresses toleration and understanding, growth and achievement, goodness and proper values. All else is lost without this.
There has never been a poetical or political movement that has changed the world permanently. Rather, there has only ever been a brief period in which ideas could flourish without them being immediately shot down by what came to dominate. We need to let ideas breathe again, and to allow space for all to find themselves within this sea of ideas. The moment one becomes too attached to an idea, they hold onto it for longer than it is useful, and at that point they lose all wisdom and become anything but wise—they rather become foolishly dogmatic, the exact opposite of freedom in thought.
Our age demands a poetic sage: a person who awakens all to the realities of their existence, and encourages them to rise up—to rise to change, to action, to power and upliftment, and lastly… to hope.