My Philosophical Endeavor

Life is so methodical, painfully mechanical. We have our moments when we dig deep into our minds and begin to grasp the tiniest understanding of this thing we call life. We start to contemplate purpose; who are we and what are we doing. What am I? Then suddenly a bell rings or an alarm sounds and what we call reality reinstates itself with unwavering authority.It’s as though we are all living blindsighted, each a simple cog within the intricate workings of a great machine, a purpose, that none of us will ever see. We have seen the hidden truth, that latent reality against which our lies incessantly churn. It peeks out ever so often from a crevice in the darkest of our dreams or from a gentle realization dawning with the sun as nature and humanity fold together for just an instant. We see these uncommon parcels and we feel their intensity as for a brief moment they weigh upon our minds the girth of countless “ifs” and “hows” and “whys”. But few go looking for them of singular will. Few seek out the enlightenment brought forth by confusion, hysteria, and bliss—what is real. Misplaced contentment severs the ties between existence and understanding.Most simply play by the roles writ by society. Saying this and doing that without ever wondering why, just as history always wrought. The cycle is pathetic to those who know, who feel the full weight of reality and hate the hopelessness of the game. As if electronically generated, they take each daily stride, filling themselves with purposeless conversation and frivolous tasks. Some live for pragmatics, others for fun and frivolity. Lives dedicate themselves to this or to that, just like clockwork. In the end that’s all we are—lives and clockwork. Some ponder on life or on death but claim falsely for their lack of apprehension. They don’t know how it is to live. Society claims to be civilized, when really all we’ll ever be is barbarians in disguise.Through the course of our lives, we each take up a mask. This is how I am and this is how I’ll be—when we have long yet to ascertain just what it means to be. Literature denotes the word—to be—criticizing it for simplicity. How simplistic are we in this living to deny exploration of the utmost realm of existence? To oversimplify that which we cannot define? We all claim to understand this cruel world, and the role our lives can play in it, when we know nothing beyond societal roles and boundaries predisposed by passing years. Reality is to concrete as fantasy is to the abstract—thus we learn to live our lives completely upside-down. We cannot touch what is real, not even with the outermost strain of our thoughts or by the one last surge of our heart’s desires. Here we are and here we’ll be. This is what it is to live, inspiring the truth we can only dream to see.If only we could pause time, reach out and hold it in our hands. Pass it through our fingertips as the correlation slowly diminishes—rhythmic ticking is not time. Instinct speaks its lies to every thread of our being, but some caged bird deep within is singing for its freedom. We want truth and depth and that intangible reality. But the tins can s we have become can withstand only so much intensity—so much as who we believe ourselves to be.

My Philosophical Endeavor

ChassNikole

Joined December 2007

  • Artist
    Notes
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

10% off

for joining the Redbubble mailing list

Receive exclusive deals and awesome artist news and content right to your inbox. Free for your convenience.