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.