It is difficult for me to read philosophy. It is either pages upon pages of technical detail and nuance that amounts to some system which either makes sense or does not based on one’s aesthetic preferences, or it is one beautiful line which strikes me so powerfully that I must stand and absorb it. Reading and reading and reading is the greatest punishment for the restless soul. The restless soul, immature as it may be, must act upon its inspiration. The inspiration speaks for itself. It is real, despite its foundations.
Only the Christian incarnates absolute death and finds in it absolute meaning. Where is there hope in the world where someone’s skull can be bashed in? There is hope in the world where God Himself has his skull bashed in, his flesh crucified. This is the God who knows what it is to suffer. This is the God who without, reality would not be complete.
Life, I guess, is about moving on. An impossibility, as everything is infinitely rich and can be probed for infinite meaning or infinite illusions of meaning, but nevertheless it’s about moving on. Onto the next thing. That’s the character of reality that makes the least sense. How can we move on? To the next thing? To the beyond? Habit clings to us hard. Oh well. Even within habit, if we can find new ways to innovate, we’ve done our job. Big breaks are for those of immeasurable strength or no eye for nostalgia.
Who am I? I am a digger. I am the one who digs open the path, for others to follow. That’s all I am and all I’ll ever be. Maybe someday, I’ll have the courage to pick up a drill myself. (Gurren Lagann is the ur-myth of human exceptionalism, transcendence, and the will busting open the way to the stars) Not even the vault of Heaven, least of all the vault of Truth, should hold me back.