It is a constant struggle to realize that life brings death in return. Reality is as merciless as a mystery. We bend or break into it while philosophers drown in their own blood of words, prophets believe as hard as their bones that what is not what should be, artists and clowns put on their crutches and others, simple people or graduates of know-how, marvel more than enough at the good wisdom of what seems normal to them to undertake.
Living takes courage. First, you have to lie to yourself, live with this crime. Then you have to make it a song, an art. It is not only the human condition, but the condition of every being that seems to move. Happy are things that erode more slowly than we do?
Is it really a glory to know that you are mortal? Is it really noble to pretend that nothing is happening? What’s the point if you don’t understand anything? Especially why persist in killing your neighbor? Are we not in the same boat thrown into an ocean of ignorance?
Sometimes I think that we are very bad actors pretending to be successful when, in front of us, the room is eternally empty. I also tell myself that it is pretentious to want to complicate life when we have trouble understanding it. Where are we going?
Would our intuition be the right one? Our naturally unstoppable logic? Is there anything else beyond that? But beyond what exactly? Of our ridiculous consciousness in its individuality or of this infinite universe to explain and explore?
Five minutes sitting in silence, breathing, and certainties fray before me. A strange peace emerges in this murmuring cave of my thoughts, a peace that does not make me happy because happiness is a decoration, that does not make me unhappy because misfortune is only the shadow of light, a vertiginous peace that I am unable to define. It sounds very good that way. But why?
I can’t conclude that it’s useless. I am surprised. There you go. Still filled with wonder and fear. Who am I?