The Fifth Science

by Exurb1a

Most humans were not malicious, only drastically misguided and desperate in their loneliness. They learned at some point that there was an eccentric core to their personality and that it was possible no one else shared their own brand of eccentricity. They put up screens around that core to shield from embarrassment and shame. For all the pompous forms in which writers and musicians have described it, love was surely that moment when the screens might come down in front of another human, if only for a moment, and freely give them a long, unfettered look into the true middle where the fear and anguish lives.

In all things, across all avenues, a choice must be made: whether to follow love, truth, or power. That choice will consume the chooser. If he follows only love then his wellbeing will be constantly at the mercy of another, though his highs will be sublime. If he follows truth then it will be a lonely journey, but potentially a noble one. If he should follow power though, not only will he come to know a desperate and revolting loneliness, but he will also never experience even a drop of satisfaction in anything.

Then one begins to learn who they actually are, noticing there are passions and proclivities buried down inside and can be teased out. There is a meaning after all and it swims leisurely into focus as the years wander past. And finally when one knows what it is they are looking for in a lover, in a career, in a house or a book, the body is beginning to fail. The spine begins to ache. The legs seize up after too long sat down and seize up after too long standing. The mind is full of information now, but whatever strange search algorithm retrieves the information is as slow and geriatric as the mind it fetches information for. I fear that on my last day, on my deathbed, that is when the meaning of things will enter the room and kiss my forehead and whisper into my ear what it was I should have done with my life, and how I should've conducted myself. Hell isn't a fire pit but a museum of regrets.

life-age-meaning

A man can do what he wants, but not will what he wants.

All explanations are an attempt by humankind to divide itself from the world. An explanation without including the explainer is as a tree without the trunk. One is inseparable from the other. No system of knowledge can avoid this limitation. Numbers are not the true face of measure. Words are not the true description of things. The world is the explanation.