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MindJams

sharing the evolution of my thoughts as i perceive the world

poet’s eyes

to animal is to fantasize
to man, to romanticize
a fanatic must consume
moderate, sparks and fume

victims of transience
eternal fall into silence
nonexistent, nor alive
never again to survive

a reality of distortion
time is but a notion
to grant a little sense
to the world in my lens

and a river of words
to capture in our works
beauty that never dies
seen by the poet’s eyes

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to the skies

Doors to numinous

Trails of transformed

Perspectives, numerous

 

Mourn for tedious

Minds rather uninformed,

Objective still dubious

 

Embracing rhapsodies

Lost thoughts tied

In grips of melodies

 

Images of symphonies

As nature last sighed

Sounds of sceneries

 

Oh grand surprise

That god had died,

Thus is man’s disguise

 

From dust I rise

To dust I return

Not to the skies

in the sky

From place to place

along the arrow of time

with an ageing face

I disperse in lines

To find home in walls

or amid the flowers

no longer significant

in ambivalence of my powers

 

To outpace time and space

hold fight in flight, &

seize a speck of grace

of what’s left in sight

Upon walls of a home, or

rotten flowers by the ground

a light-beam or mote of dust

linger upon a world of sound

 

No father art in heaven,

abandoned thy condition

No scripture or saint

thy canvas thy paint

Thou shalt not kill

for thou shalt perish

Thus take thy will

to love and to cherish

when love wears time

The human life is a mode of existence, an odyssey bound by temporality and an experience of dazzling self-awareness. It is observable that nature evolves in an ironic way, in that it tends to protect itself from itself like a tender rose and its thorns. At the same time however, bees and flowers engage in symbiosis to provide each other with the privilege of survival and preservation. It is incomprehensible indeed, that it is in the nature of things to destroy to preserve, and so death, life, and other necessities, are too humanly rejected. Us humans, we love, feel and grieve; how do we make peace with transience and time if even our soulfully constructed infinities are bound by finitude?

I often argue that it is only within the human life that God can be found, that God is a human thought and construct merely for the catharsis from the burdening self-aware existence; yet to follow the logical causality to the very origin, it must be true that God is without nature, unbound by it, unaffected by time, dimensionless. Then by demonstrating how interactions can only be realized between two existing agents, nature and itself, it is quite unreasonable to have God exist. And if God is to exist, then sadly enough, the ultimate human wish is deceived by the tragic reality: everything existent shall die, and then God too will die.

Man is not only nature protecting itself from itself; but an even grander scheme, man is nature in existential crisis, tending to rather stick itself out of itself. The idea of God is a self-projection of what man might become: as long as man dies, God too will die, and if man is to one day live eternally, outside of time and nature’s forces, he becomes God.

In the past 200 years, the world has been embellished by the touch of the most brilliant minds, minds that have shaken the ground of conviction in the direction of progression, a keener genre of preservation. It is no coincidence that the delusion of having an interacting creator of the universe that is outside of nature is in a process of demolishment. It is no coincidence either, that within this quick progressive preservation, ideas have arisen to suggest that God is not detached from nature; rather, God is nature.

Soon enough, as soon as man grants himself all that is needed to constitute the characters of God, “He” will once more stick out of nature, and achieve boundless infinity.

For the time being, we smoke cigarettes and get hit by cars. We make films, write poems, and make art. We love, feel and grieve, because we die, still.

The romantic state is a continuous cycle of love and grief. Love is a mode of life, and life is a mode of existence, so love too is a temporal tangible creed of an unfaithful eternity. When I realize that I am bound to uncertain death and simultaneously feel my attachment to life, I recoil in existential crisis. In a similar manner, when I realize that my love is bound to end just as life to death, and I am profoundly in love with a speaking flower, I recoil in existential crisis, ever more powerful. It is rather melancholic, to mourn over someone not yet lost, yet it is inevitable as I was born mourning over myself.

I have been both impaired and intrigued by love and its escorted melancholy. Why is it that the most marvelous sensation, a catharsis greater than God, truly sensed by all means of perception and beyond, tragic, even before it ends? The perplexing contradiction in the nature of love, in that it is both transient from without but infinite from within, is what makes it the prevailing force of the sadistic human life. “We accept the love we think we deserve.” No love is unaccompanied by tragedy, and that is because no man is deserving of endless love, for he himself is not.

the subject’s emergence 2.0

I have come to realize the gravity of our subjectivity and the confines of our reality by our perceptions within every ‘conscious’ encounter, literally. I could not stress more that, relatively, mind surpasses body on some virtual evolutionary scale; however, I could not but doubt what the mind muses about. To elaborate, claiming that I am mind and not body is erroneous for the mere fact that my mind (essence) cannot be without my body (its existence). What I have failed to comprehend in my mindful recollects, is the meaning that men of language set to the word existence, and how it is erroneous to attribute essence to existence in absolute, rather than existence to itself, hence the relativity of existence. I cannot say my mind exists, but I can say that my mind exists within my body, and my body exists upon a rocky planet that harbors life, and then the chain of existence and sub-existence goes on and on until uncertainty is met; until we are left meditating over oceans of ceaseless debates that have emerged only from human fallibility and a struggle to define, describe, and attribute the essence of anything to the existence of everything, in absolute. Therefore realizing the ability to doubt, and realizing the absurdity that envelopes, I could not but submerge reality in skepticism, a false-hearted arena that bogs the mind and sets forth ‘logical’ solutions that are not satisfactory to being a subject. When man falls in skepticism, he is indulged in a self-fight activity in that the subject can never become objective, and that the absolute is merely an idea or conception of what man wishes to become: beautiful, objective, immortal, free, perfect, absolute, God. These are notions that are thought of and brought up in man’s ascetics on an almost daily basis, inasmuch as man lives by them, and cannot reject them; because to doubt radically and question the self’s purpose in a purposeless universe, is fatal for man who weeps, hurts, dies and loves.
Then, to doubt the mind that doubts, to push reason to the furthest stretch, is a scheme of thinking that is not on the basis of questioning the creator of the universe, but questioning creation and its purpose, the validity of existence itself, and the validity of the absolute, way before the validity of God and man’s fate.

To spare the intellectual anguish, Descartes’s demonstration of radical doubt would suffice; but what I am after is not the endless doubt, for the outcome is futile if one’s will is far from self-destruction, rather hooked on self-understanding and preservation. I am rather after the fact that even Descartes, the radical skeptic, came to halt at a conclusion that is, “I think therefore I am”, which is no less subject to doubt than the idea of God itself, for even that could be doubted furthermore, but it is far beyond human actuality to be radically skeptic of anything “absolute”. It is indeed necessary for survival of self and sanity to halt at a point of, not acceptance, but admittance of our folly in the search of the absolute, the admittance of our fate, the only truth man can know; man weeps, man loves, and man dies.

For even radical doubt of everything and the absolute is an exertion to grasp what man wishes to become; however, to admit human actuality is the first step to become what we want to become inasmuch as to admit that man is not free, is the first step to freedom, and to admit that man does not know truth is more truthful than any notion man lives by. I once came across a statement I truly appreciated, it is that man falls victim to his own grammar in that the verb (the act) is to be preceded by a subject (the actor), and the error lies in attributing specific acts that man cannot himself commit, to greater actors, such as, God (absolute).

Correspondingly, in our efforts to immortalize, to become absolute: we write, we philosophize, we paint; we produce.

Beauty is thus attributed to the limit of man’s production and effort; what we find beautiful is what we cannot produce and cannot grasp with our five senses, and why we find it beautiful is the inability to be as beautiful, or to be artisans of such “perfection”, and here is where the concept of the absolute perfection arises from: when nothing more aesthetic can be actualized. The universe is perfect, it is the “grand design”, for as long as it is the only universe we know of, it is the only design, it cannot but be perfect and the same can be said of all that man claims to be perfect. However, as long as the validity of existence itself lingers as is, it is erroneous to claim perfection upon anything; it is rather a conceptualization of a possible better, so then absolutely nothing is perfect, rather what is perfect is only relatively perfect. By the same token, nothing is absolute; rather what is absolute is relatively absolute, only for he who ponders upon the absolute. Just as God exists for he who believes in “him”, and humbly does not for he who does not believe in him.

The subject’s emergence is thus the realization that in the dominion of the absolute, man is not. It is the act of stepping out of the illusion of man’s purity, in the admittance that man is not pure, he is one step closer to purity, in that he weeps, loves, and dies.

to the cruelty of life

To the cruelty of life

I beheld my tears

In the absence of light

I shattered my fears;

 

For when the light penetrated

through the wooden pale windows

and gently touched the ground,

We danced there slowly

in the absence of sound.

 

 

To the cruelty of life

I fail to utter words

In the absence of essence

I mused upon the absurd;

 

For when the light cracked

through my vacant vessel

and gently touched my heart,

I stood there silent

amid emotions torn apart.

 

 

To the cruelty of life

I have suffered, I have lived

instants gone with thought

to repress in memory

what my mind had sought:

 

Surreal beauty

arising from dust,

ecstatic romance

emerging from loss,

& a will to live

as death come across

 

Over the quest for essence

In abandoned anguish

Feeding over presence

I sought and sought.

 

 

Cruelty of life,

When time welcomes existence

as it creeps within my skin,

I am left with no choice

but to love it all

as it burns and burns

within.

Youssef Bouchi

Sisyphus in love

Of all attempts to immortality man might ponder upon, of all ways for the profound subject to project himself onto transference objects that break the bounds of mortality, the true, ultimate, fundamental transference object not only for man but life itself, is love.

It is one of the toughest and trickiest matters that scientists and philosophers have encountered, for even them, the objective rational ones, free-fall senselessly into beauty. The bond amid love and beauty is explicit: no conscious being can deny that love is beautiful; just as it is quite a consensus that the universe is the grand design. Then the scientist’s skepticism and the philosopher’s addiction to thought dig into the secrets of love, to try to rationalize it, or dress it up with theorems and hypotheses, but they will forever fail to conclude. For love is not merely an abundance of neurotransmitters firing in our brains, nor is it a metaphysical theory to be debated about; it is more than that, it is real, and it is the essence of life itself.

In the quantum world, ‘quantum entanglement’ is when two particles, regardless of the light-years that separate them, interact in such a way that the fate and quantum state of one particle is dependent on its entangled partner. In such an observation, recognizing the secrets of such a phenomenon and describing it in mathematical equations would be futile in light of its beauty; for sometimes learning a magic trick renders it dull, for where is the magic then?

To tackle the entanglement that ties two lovers, we must first detach them from one another, and look at the individual on its own; and after doing so, we realize that our sampled conscious individual carries the weight of being merely a mortal embodied mind limited by bounds of reality and sinking into the voids of confusion and absurdity. Thus ‘entangling’ with another conscious individual bearing other existential weights renders man more complete in such a scheme; just as much as detaching a particle from its quantum entanglement would render it incomplete.

Here, one must not ‘imagine Sisyphus happy’, rather imagine Sisyphus in love; for if Sisyphus falls in love, it would be futile to return to the rock, and wiser to abandon it.

It is evident that love is human’s preferable means of immortality; even in technology and futurism we tend to enhance human connectivity, or ‘human entanglement’ for the sake of the analogy, by pushing ourselves further and experiencing digital entanglement, we’ve come so far in evolving our ultimate weapon of transference that even a virtual text message has the power to get our hearts pulsating, goose bumps dashing across our skin, and our minds tripping on memory lanes.

A photograph that is merely an instantaneous imprisonment of light has the legitimacy of taming with our emotional memory and dissolving our ego into tears.

We long for awe, we long for immortality, and thus we long for love.

When in a moment of now, in awe, in a flow state of connectivity, time is compressed and an instant is equivalent to a thousand. Therefore, love and other wonders transcend us to a dimension where time, and henceforth death, are insignificant. & just like that, we cheat on time with our human mistresses, and cheat on death with our offspring; thereupon making love the most powerful weapon in our war with existentialism.

It is ironic though, how love battles time and ephemerality, while time and ephemerality are what give love meaning, just as the value of spring’s blossoms lies in the heart of fall’s transience.

And so here one’s fear of love develops as a result of the fear of the heartbreak; why indulge in such an intense spring when fall will wear it all off?

It is identical to the development of the fear of life as an upshot of the fear of death: we do not invest in life for one day death will wash it away, we do not indulge in awe for the sun will set and darkness will rule the night, we do not fall in love for love is fleeting and the heartbreak awaits.

However, only through experience and time, emotions and pain, could one grasp and draw, little by little, the fine line separating love and loss, life and death; and there comes a time where it might be a little too late, which is why I urge you to plunge in, run, feel, cry, scream; I urge you to be human. For the more one allows a free-fall into beauty, the more humane one becomes. The absurdity of life is evident in how some processes are irreversible, in how we age, in how we die, & the righteous response as Albert Camus would recommend, is not by abandonment, rather by revolt, and again by not going ‘gentle into that good night but raging against the dying of the light.’

Do not fear life for the randomness, absurdity, and halt that death awaits, rather live ceaselessly because you will die; love endlessly because it is ephemeral, and because it will hurt.

Because:

Love is more.

Love is particle entanglement.

Love is time distortion and a manifestation of value in ephemerality.

Love is personifying “god” and sinking in the feelings of grandiosity that are entailed, just as that of the sunrise, into a human body that regards with emotional eyes and touches with overwhelming hands.

Love is two subjects throwing loads of individual experience at each other as two galaxies indulged in an intergalactic dance that only ends when the pair merges into one.

And as it ends,

Imagine Sisyphus in love.

the subject’s emergence

I’m a sucker for moments where I fall hard and heavy into skepticism of reality itself; what a wide scope that is the most subjectively objective experience bound by all the dimensions we know of, or for the sake of subjectivity, we claim logical.

A few days ago, I had my close friend report me a tragic incident that had occurred at the same point of space that has been occupied by himself every single day, repeatedly, but not at the same point in time. A human being was shot dead; corpse left in the middle of the street. In a single second, a subject became an object; from an accumulation of experience, thoughts, memories and consciousness to a body that cannot even feel the ground it lies upon, nor the rain it sinks within. Senses shut off, consciousness gone dim; decaying matter was what’s left of him.

Replaying on repeat was the scenario in my mind, the image of a face that once held expressions of happiness and sadness, now pale and receiving nothing but drizzle, unknown or unfelt of. A still frame to symbolize the variable of time, which had defined a subject as it ran, come to a standstill, and then abandon. Synchronously, my thoughts struck by existential questions, that forever will be, open-ended.

Just like that, from subject to object.

No heaven, no hell, not afterlife, not even reality itself; an expired body, no longer functional, finally demonstrates the mind’s fate, and thereupon ‘I do not think, therefore I am not.’

Just like that.

 

As the sun rises the next day, and as it does every day, that man is nothing but a memory, which is also subjected to forgetfulness and nothingness, for he who remembers him, will die, too. Time knows only he who knows time, and with the transformation of the subject to the object, time is unknown. Ironic how the objective truth hides behind the mask of pessimistic subjectivity, which is merely an observable reality that is transcended, deeply, in the ‘heart’ of the observer. Notice how death is an avoided topic on a dining table, and how it is perceived as an event that is unlikely to occur ‘any time soon’. Always self-programmed to believe, trustfully, “not today.”

How sad it is to be reminded of one’s own fate, and how disastrous that the subject (mind) is after all finite in regards to the object (body).

Now of course, one tool of immortality is earning oneself a proper death certificate with a proper “cause of death” as a sophisticated data point. Most probably, we will fail to project ourselves onto the Heavens, so that is ruled out. Of course, our so-called immortality projects are bound to fail just as much as we are bound to die. The transference objects we have assigned might as well be observers to our tragic transformation; nothing rules out the possibility of dying before my lover or my child. Thus unfortunately, a firm and respectable “cause of death” on a massive database is our last and only resort, “realistically”.

See how subjective?

Subjective in that there is a difference in empathy towards an elderly who dies peacefully and naturally and towards the man referred to previously. That is the subject’s threat; that sets the gravity of the fearful reminder of the ultimate. The subject would rather imagine himself go peacefully amongst his fulfilled goals, than rot on one of those man-made roads. As if ‘cause of death’ on that futile certificate entails “tragic” or “peaceful”.

Subjective in that there would be a “real” measurable difference if that man had been a priest or the president of the United States of America. As if none of these men discharges feces once or twice every 24 hours; as if these men are immortals.

Everything is measurable in our world; it is our world, isn’t it?

However, a few things are just not measurable, and if you’re alert enough, almost nothing is definitely measurable, which leads us to a messy point.

At a point like this, we plunge in skepticism of reality; and there is nothing more fearful, truthful and beautiful than a point so dense at which the accumulation that is you converges to a halt. You would expect an answer, but find: nothing.

At that point, it is only allowable to say, “I exist, now.”

How mournful that in my mind I escape a bullet, fly over Earth, and travel at the speed of light; yet in the realm of existence, a bullet takes me away, gravity pulls me down, and science betrays.

down the road

count i lost for countless times

unknown how long i must wait,

addicted to consistent chimes

how i wish i could hit and wake

 

days passed i could not reckon

full of memories i can’t recall,

all these faces i have forgotten

i wore them off, after all

 

intermittently came my episodes

if only time i could bend,

& hitch-hike down the road

for every episode comes an end

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