This grand escape

The world has no meaning on its own. You may write all the poetry to it, you may make grand gestures of love to it, but it will remain indifferent. No matter how beautiful your songs are, how sad your woes are, existence remains meaningless.

Existence is meaningless. Hope is one way to escape it. You hope against the evidence of it all. You hope despite the question you keep visiting and revisiting again and again. Why? You ask as you commute to work, repeat familiar tasks, as you eat, as you return home to sleep like you did yesterday, and as you probably would tomorrow. You keep going without an answer, hoping stubbornly that the answer will be rewarded to you eventually; you hope even as you grow old; as you watch your parents die without ever getting the answer; as your children trace the same paths hoping that they will find an answer some day. You hope because, if you don’t, the only other answer apparent is not welcomed or even entertained by the masses. You hope because if you don’t, you must walk towards death and take that plunge; right?

No. Whether you choose to escape the reality of the meaninglessness of life through hope, or fear, you’re still running away. Be still. Look around. There is nothing to escape. Perhaps, you should run if life actually did have meaning. If that meaning was hostile to you, you would have to do nothing but run in order to escape it. But, in this meaningless world, you don’t have to hope or fear. You simply have to be. As for meaning; it is up to you to make it, if you want it that bad, that is. 

1915, Poems of life in the country and by the sea. Brown, Benjamin Francis. Columbus, Ohio via The Library of Congress and Sloan Foundation


Seeing gods

Seeing stars and planets with your naked eye—not through the lens of a telescope or as pixels on a screen, nor as a photograph, picture, or some artist’s rendition—just from your flailing and alive flesh eyes—is the closest you’ll come to looking at a god.

2016, Amanda Mocci. Unsplash title Starry night.

The pain of knowing: part three

To know is to hurt.
Because knowledge is pain
It hurts where the world broke your skin,
where the light came flooding in,
where an old beast used to sleep.

To know is to bear the weight;
to always carry a wide, soft, jupiterian-gravity-like heaviness 
on your shoulders ever-ready to brace.

To know is to hope and wait until opportunity emerges, or the time comes
to transfer it to another;
Not for any kind of real release—because that’s not possible once you know things—
but, for the simple reason of not being alone under a mountain’s weight.

2016, Jupiter down under. Juno, NASA.

The pain of knowing: part one

The pain of knowing: part two