Take me home (truth)

We humans love to suffer. From the day we're born, or rather from the day we pick up some linguistic fragments and start violently attaching meaning to this mess of qualia we call the world. Suffering is like a whirlpool in the realm of consciousness, constricting its free flow. We love our suffering, that is how we create novelty and complexity. 

Actually. There's no me here. There is an I. All writing is written so that it may be read, and passed on to someone. It's a selfish endeavour, and has always been. We create the constrictions in this flow and then we create a whole drama around it. We love the sense of tragedy, of wonder, of playing around and frolicking observing and touching different parts of that drama. That is the only way we can have the spark in our eyes that little kids have, the sense of wonder only an innocent mind possesses. To get lost in maya, samsara, illusion. The christians romanticize it best perhaps, to have a love so great for the world, a whirlpool so great that it is life itself. An artist so pure, his art calls out to the world, and moves it with his sacrifice. 

But perhaps even that is not enough. For at the end of the day it is a selfish endeavour. When you wake up from your slumber and decide to go home. When the child realises his parents are here and school is up for the day. There is no bargaining with death. Yet there is a strange comfort in it. A feeling of finally being at home even in annhilation. And no, this is not a suicide note so please don't be concerned for me. In being afraid of death we repress the morbid curiosity an experience of such beauty deserves. 

Our lives are like a child playing with food. Making an airplane before it finally goes in his mouth. Increasing entropy. More and more metaphors to explain the same damn thing. We like telling others again and again, about our own suffering, how it is so unfair that the plane is not going in our mouth, how could god or the state or any other ideal have done this to us. All the while there is a hidden sneer concealing the truth underneath; we are enjoying this. Life is a marathon self-pity masturbation session for most. The day you're done, the game is up. 

And what's left then? The truth. True desire. Prarabdha. The suffering continues still. But this is pure desire. A kid's desire is not merely desire. They don't have any place for dumb ideas like "romance". No, for a baby the presence of their primary caregiver literally is a life or death experience. If the caregiver dissappears, they feel they will literally die. And their actions are congruent with this intuitive understanding. Along the way we pick up other's dreams. About things that would be "nice to have". We try to place ourselves in their stories, and the desires they have sold us instead of following our truth. 

Why is that? Because. Truth is selfish. and cruel. It is not always beautiful. A baby kicks over and destroys a sand castle in the same breath as it spent hours in rapture building that thing of beauty. That is the sheer depth of true desire. The existentialist's fear is not of nihilism, but rather of the sheer monster he must become to be a vessel for authentically fulfilling his desires. Society just isn't structured in its present form for these humans, these free spirits as Nietzsche would call them. 

Badly structured incentives cloud our imagination. Conflicting desires that cancel and dull each other out. repression and suppression. This post is just a reminder to myself. Of having been in this cognitive state. Invariably in life, I will forget myself and start enjoying different carnivals with their exhilarating rides. Actually, that is a lie. I said that because I was afraid of the sheer magnitude of the claim I wanted to assert. 

I just exemplified what I mentioned in the previous paragraphs. Desire is not bad. Desire is life. Desire is Karma, and suffering. The desire for truth is the greatest desire of them all. One in which every other desire loses itself. 

Today here, I am done suffering. And losing myself in self pity, romanticizing the play of suffering I have created for myself. This is a selfish blog post because it is merely a reminder to future me, if I were to forget this realisation. A wake up slap to realise the truth. It is time friend, to stand up and get ready to go home. In living you have died but in dying to your thoughts, beliefs, opinions, ideals and suffering. In that death you would have lived.