the meaninglessness lament

 

When you sit in meaninglessness... You wonder how you reached here. Did you fancy Robert frost and take the path less travelled or did you believe in Emily Dickenson's Hope, hoping that you would find meaning? In that journey of finding meaning you go through so many phases.

In all the phases we go through some are blessed in being stuck in one, forever. The phase of illusion I would say. The illusionary perpetual.  Begins rightly with you, being that good child in the perfect mold, which the capitalist parents desired and grow up to be exactly the way, society traded. You would find meaning in the meaningless, not that you are wrong, but that you are too sure of it. It becomes the thing with feathers that drives you desires. Easier life and quicker death awaits you.  In death its translucence is intermittently for some, others casually miss it.

Then they are the partially blessed ones, whose lives are shattered... They go through loss that's unbearable, immovable, that deliciously drowns them, such purgatory they live. It's like a daydream, waking up to their worst nightmares and sleeping to escape. But what they don't see is, this escape temporary, traps them in bounded burden. Burden in such a way that they sinks into this dream like state, only at death, awake.

In this are a few courageous one who fly above the chaos to connect with what is within. They skew from their loop, which can be done in two ways. Now imagine you being a traveler standing, two roads diverging. Which would you choose? The easy being the one where you end the sustenance of creation in you. Where you say, “enough is enough” and take the plunge, in one easy swift moment you choose. This would be the road that is less travelled, for it is not for the faint heart and the rational mind.

The other path being the slower, chosen by the wiser, the way of cutting through worn out leather dedicatedly. Where little by little, you shed your skin, again and again with all the curve balls life throws at you, letting all the callous in your hands to grow into callousness to fear, where you reach a stage that you are too exhausted to fight the current but now wiser, ready to flow, in the direction it takes you. You simply flow, flowering all the little you can. Touching all these precious lives. You have no stagnation. For you, stagnation comes only in death. Only in death you find peace. Only death gives you that crumb to reset and restart.

 These are the two extremities of the scales, many in moderation also lay. For between extremities they exists infinities. I won't say it's awful, neither awesome. It's probably the attitude you summon.  In hopes to choose the road less travelled, ultimately you only becoming one in many, as previously done. You begin with a search, a search for meaning, only to end up meaninglessness again.