His eyelids open, a kaleidoscope of images flashes through the mind. Vivid images, that is, some convoluted… partially clear, fully hidden. One thinks that the contents of the mind, which belongs to self, are opened to knowledge. How naive of a person, for the hardest thing to know is the self… I give credit to Thales of Miletus for this wisdom. The images continue to flash, and our character remains, still in slumber, yet at once awake. That pestering faculty begins to rise… one bit, now two, now three, and more. A loop… infinite in measure, deceptively finite in comprehension, begins to form. He tosses from one side to another, wishing to wake but is beholden by comfort. A prayer to God, if He exists, is solemnly given. To bow to some divine power, one must ask: is it an act of submission, obedience, and admiration, or a spirit of cowardice, indolence, and capitulation? The prayer is crafted, offered with a pensive disposition, nonetheless. A means of appeasement, to expiate for the sin of thinking of earthly matters rather than those of heaven above. However, does God really worry? Heaven or Earth; all relative… or rather one is contained in the other, thus, what does it matter? Many journey to paradise all the while missing it; many ponder above and are destroyed below. Within us is the kingdom of God; there is no seeking it in the heavenly bodies, nor in the crevice of an atom. Ah, prayer… that which connects us to the divine, bringing forth the many into one, and the one extending to the many.
That great philosopher (Montaigne) once said, and this is the last time he is borrowing from the storehouses of another, “We pray out of habit and custom, or to speak more correctly, we read or pronounce our prayers.” Well, from what springs ought we pray? A man burdened and angry with God can pronounce a heartfelt prayer… for a few seconds or more. Must one mince the words of their heart… of the authenticity within, even if it is marred? In the end, it doesn’t matter, for all prayer reaches God… even the baseless; yet not all prayer moves God… for His will is independent. It moves like a snake in the grass, ephemeral in our periphery, unclear even in our clarity, and confusing to our observation. Thus, indeed Christ hears him… whether out of custom or habit… for is not all human action, anyway, a matter of habit? A training of the self to do what is set… that the total sum of a man is what he habitually does.
An “Amen” is pronounced… the final clause to a plea. Hoping the master delivers. Perhaps there is none above, for the room is silent; not even an echo can be felt. A bold anticipation creeps, one step at a time; hope runs its course through this man. Oh, how foolish, for what is hope if not delusion? The difference? Since our universe is a probabilistic one, certain wishes coincide with reality. No error committed. ‘Tis sweet, this hope, when it rests on the tongue… when emotions are alive, when ecstasy is drunk, and the soul is whisked to the abstract realm. A place where all deductions are true, where all arguments have an end, where deductive reasoning is the fabric of that space—and time forms no continuum.
Suspended in one scenery, where a hand reaches out… the fingers are stretched, reaching out for God. I believe this to be the toil of the believer, all the same with the non-believer. There remains something out there, a God of all gods, at once hidden, unseen, unheard, and paradoxically felt. See, God is an eerie echo. At the periphery, one sees Him, making gestures, laughing, smiling, and grabbing the attention. Instantly when one turns to look, there is nothing there. One may think of it as an eerie feeling of not being alone, even in a dark room. HEY, I SEE YOU… I suppose. Why do You make Yourself unknown? Such a fascinating sight, it surely cannot be because of Your will. For if Your will is to save, why not make it easier? I do not find the argument of free will to be convincing. That God loves, and that His love is doubly given to beings with agency; add to that a hell, and one can sneakily circumnavigate the problem. Still, an observer would realize that this is itself a hindrance to love. Hell, or heaven? What do I know? I live on earth below, suspended in the middle, swaying from one way to another… in an endless dance. A dance that begins with humanity and ends all the same. See now, the trap is laid, for if one focuses on heaven or hell, there can be no escape. Nothing can be known of these states, except one, that heaven and hell are below, within, and all around. From within we persecute others, from without we torment them, and, like an ingenious pincer movement, from both we condemn.
There must be a way to escape hell, for if it is within, as is common knowledge, the fight rests on the inner self. The shadow that carries us, and not we it. The conscience that pervades us, the self that constrains us, and the beliefs that express us. All of these require a different mode of knowledge to combat. To understand one’s enemy, there must be comprehension of their whereabouts, their psyche, and history. I place much value on the psyche, for one can understand their activity. Hence a man who is easily understood is no dangerous person, for there is predictability and familiarity. One that is in constant motion cannot be understood, nor prepared against. To understand those jewels plastered in the sky, one must study rigorously and be simply attentive to their nightly seemingly transient allure. Knowledge of the stars requires study and an extended capacity of brain, but it is due to understanding that all mankind looks above… whisked away into infinity, flung across the galaxy, and transported to the many worlds that could be, and are.
It then remains true, by a process of tight reasoning, if my enemy is myself, I must seek to comprehend. He gets up from his bed and sits upright… hope has burned away, and despair, that naturally grounding force, reveals itself. The anxiety to remain standing weakens the legs and weighs heavy on the heart. Before him lies a chasm, open to interpretation, yet never filled. Human knowledge at best approximates and at worst misfires, but what is the target if there is nothing known of it? All the knowledge of this world, and yet we remain stuck… incapable of perceiving reality as it is, not as perceived by human instruments.
When I look within, I find everything in store; from vice to virtue; love and hatred; wisdom and folly. All the more, there seems to be no end in sight, for I am infinite in capacity. Each day I wake anew; each night I die, renewed. I find before me philosophy, the love of wisdom, a healthy-toxic aid. The poisonous remedy that I abhor. To know myself is the maxim… and thus I am whisked away to everything but myself. To metaphysics, I consider what reality is. Of logic, I wonder what the best argument is. To ethics, I ponder the proper way of being. Ad infinitum these wonders bring me; he cannot walk without the eyes reverting to some sight, the lust for knowledge; far more potent than the lust for a woman. One is reduced to madness, for there is no cohesion… a constant shifting, at light speed, whisked from this to that… transported to one piquant sight and now to a palatable sensation… like the feeling one gets at rubbing, slightly, two fingers; a deceptive trick to play the strings of life, or so he assumes. The pangs, or fangs, of clarity.
The soul inhales the fume of information, transformed by it, revitalized and set free. Like a planted tree, one is nourished daily. He enters within and vigorously shakes, dissecting the various parts of the soul; the psyche does not remain safe. He utters that devastating question, “WHY?” The same that acts like a stumbling block to philosophers, the same that seems to set the layman free. Divine ordinance permits this: that one must know the self before anything, for through it comes discipline, virtue, alertness, and growth. Indeed, but why is knowledge sought after? It has never led to safety, nor an oasis in this desert we call thinking. There is an infinite amount to know, an infinite place to be, and an infinite will to see. Even if uncursed by God and given immortality, this burden of knowledge and the lust to know would keep one stagnant. Imagine being given a task to do, and one seeks to know all about it, the intricacies and inner workings, the use and the burdens. I swear that none could complete it.
Knowledge is an infinitely expanding branch; one leads to many, and many still lead to more. The goal of human living is to gain understanding, and from understanding, wisdom presents itself. Be careful, for wisdom and knowledge are cousins, and both bring despair and suffering, giving a quest never ending. Wisdom is valuable, for one becomes prudent, but can one ever be wise? For life brings new circumstances, and the wisdom of today may fall tomorrow. He thinks to himself, “Perhaps it is the dotard, the one who truly lives.” Those with no comprehension of wisdom or knowledge.
Understanding brings all things to one, a single knowledge that supplements it all. A guarantee that one will never fall. It is the roots of the tree, which supplement it all. See, knowledge is simply the branches, always extending to nought. The better question and quest are how to combine understanding and knowledge as law. Sigh. I must again borrow from one great man, Socrates, for he has understood this one thing: that he knows nothing. A supplement to humility, a medication for all futility. I must add one more clause, that there remains a second part, taken from God in Christ Himself, the belief that I am nothing. I suppose connecting the two brings to knowledge all things. Indeed… it does. One thinks that knowledge leads to understanding, but it is quite the opposite. On this firm ground that I observe, all things become clear, all accessible, and all reachable… at least while I remain on Earth, constantly pondering above. Till one day I am brought above and ponder no more.
The epitaph for knowledge will thus be:
Here lies that great allure,
In night and day, it called to play.
Till at last it faded too.
Contained within a singular core.
HAHAHAHAHAHA… THE PARADOX STILL REMAINS.
How hilarious is that my dear reader, isn’t it?
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