It was perhaps fortuitous that i seemed to be cogitating on the nature of phenomena that day. I have a propensity to navigate recondite subject matter and perhaps it was inevitable the turn my thought processes took that day. Yet something is obtruding on my sense of things . There is an obstacle in the flow of my being. Do i circumvent the barricade or unravel it. The curved edges of my unconscious open inside out, providing stimulus for introspection yet their inviolable interstices disallow self knowledge to percolate.
Which takes me back to the nature of knowledge. What constitutes knowledge? Is it the known, the experienced or the absorbed. We can only experience what causality decrees. In that sense are we marionettes contingent on destiny or self acting individuals. And experience is in any case only experience unless it is experienced. Signifiers of experience compose the flotsam and jetsam of complex human patterns of consciousness. We dip into these gossamer arabesques, imbue them with the force of memory and hold them up for understanding. Their interlocked ridges render singularity null. A fragment is imperceptibly cleaved to other fragments through a concatenation of interlinked temporalities . Yet these stipples are not dappled by the temporal. They traverse the maze of past, present and future and inform perception and recollection with the coordinates of the conglomerated realms they inhabit. The chiaroscuro of memory embalms experience into rational whorls, capable of exegesis yet a fundamental unreason underpins memory. Unreason could, perhaps be seen as the mind's way of creating narratives from the void of the ontological. A nothingness begins and ends humaneness. Yet it is in the gaps, the intermeshed fibres of association and the complex peregrination of time, desire, memory that meaning, albeit self created, emerges.
Is meaning necessary? Can existence, self contained, coiled within itself make for a raison d etre to live. Can pure, undistilled being be a mode of being. Meaning necessitates story and story thickens meaning, quickens faculties of apprehending and transforms the featureless unscrolled palimpsest into a rewoven memory . The story, after all, is nothing but our way of telling ourselves why we exist. We trace out patterns, identity emblems, commonalities that would solder what we are now to what we were then. What we are now is what we always were, always made ourselves to be, reconfigured.
These ruminations are inducing a somnolent philosophic quietude in me. A cavalcade of nebulous phenomene have unleashed a deluge of the deeper recesses of life. Life, i reflect, is good, despite misgivings. Life is a luminous halo around which the mortal frame irradiates its constituents. I think of a flower enclosed by petals. The stalk oozing sap is the sap of life. The subfusc profusion of colors from the petals are streaks of mortality and entombed at the centre, around which the plumage folds itself together is the core of blankness. Around this core centers the narrative of human life. Yet the paraphernalia, the surrounding foliage suffuses with such irrepressible gaiety that one seeks restitution from these intangible accouetrements. Accoutrements, after all are myths, rationalizations that are built to buttress the blankness of non being. We need these components to scaffold existence as a self possessed force of life. Yet this proliferation of associations, with their zigzagging, bewildering byways are prompting in me a perspicacious inquiry which is how this train of thought came to be.
The train of thought. Well the train of thought emerged from bypassing the original nature of inquiry which was the nature of phenomenon. But the train of thought veraciously authenticated phenomena in itself.