the fact that she is no longer alluding to anything simply means that it all straight as a bat, that is, nothing is ever being concealed, nor is there any relevance or importance in concealing, for one who conceals too much is always guilty of something. and of course there is loathing on one part, in fact, she has every right (or merit, reason) to feel angry, but emotions such as these are useless, temporal as ever, they subside down eventually, until nothing is felt except a vague sense of unfamiliarity. if i do not recall something, it means that i do not feel strongly about it.
if days pass by like this, if life was as fleeting, temporal, lacking color either in form of resentment or happiness, where you have no thought or feeling about anything; just another anonymous who refuses to participate in the world, then what is ever being remembered? if naught is recorded, etched to the mind, written down – nothing being done, nothing being stirred, then, what is the use of living?
if we dare to take from William James, in his book The Varieties of Religious Experience, in chapter/lecture The Sick Soul;
When such a conquering optimist as Goethe can express himself in this wise, how must it be with less successful men?
“I will say nothing,” writes Goethe in 1824, “against the course of my existence. But at bottom it has been nothing but pain and burden, and I can affirm that during the whole of my 75 years, I have not had four weeks of genuine well-being. It is but the perpetual rolling of a rock that must be raised up again forever.”
What single-handed man was ever on the whole as successful as Luther? Yet when he had grown old, he looked back on his life as if it were an absolute failure.
“I am utterly weary of life. I pray the Lord will come forthwith and carry me hence. Let him come, above all, with his last Judgment: I will stretch out my neck, the thunder will burst forth, and I shall be at rest.”
“Doctor, I wish you may live forty years to come.” “Madam,” replied he, “rather than live forty years more, I would give up my chance of Paradise.”
Failure, then, failure! so the world stamps us at every turn. We strew it with our blunders, our misdeeds, our lost opportunities, with all the memorials of our inadequacy to our vocation. And with what a damning emphasis does it then blot us out! No easy fine, no mere apology or formal expiation, will satisfy the world’s demands, but every pound of flesh exacted is soaked with all its blood. The subtlest forms of suffering known to man are connected with the poisonous humiliations incidental to these results.
so the western mind (german, really), is preoccupied with failure, with all their Sisyphus-ian analogies. even rilke is obsessed with death. ach. by time, verily man is in a state of loss.
it is narrated by the prophet muhammad;
Live in this world as a wayfarer or a stranger
also, this;
“If you live till night, then do not wait for the next day, and if you wake up in the morning do not have hope that you will live till the night. And take (advantage) from your health before your sickness and take advantage of your life before your death”
maybe my mother or father mentioned the above last week, but ah, the very fact is that i always look forward to night because that is actually when everything (i.e domestic, academic activities) does cease, and one can finally begin to contemplate write or read. why not during day time? too many distractions. as shariati says, the day is for acquirement and the night is for reflection. we’ll fashion life to this fashion then.
goodnight.
perkaraperkara 