Fear, Dreams, and Whiskey

The last few months were particularly harsh on him. Time stood still, leaving him fighting for breath in a horrifying state of mind, shaped by basic elements of fear and despair to an extent he never imagined was possible. He lost the will to go on, and was even deprived of the desire and strength to write or talk about it; it seemed like he had already visited and exhausted those occurrences and feelings a thousand times before, but he had not been blessed with acceptance yet. There is no point in attempting to find a place for them as part of a logical or coherent whole, and he is left with nothing but bits and pieces of images, both lived and dreamt of, with a raging river of rain and alcohol washing the difference away.

*****

His sentence was proclaimed; he is to take his last breath at midnight. He was not ready yet, and that truth pushed down heavily on his chest. His last day of living was something unexpected, and it seemed like such an unjust decision that was thrown coldly in his face when no one watched or listened. Why on earth couldn’t he protest? Why was no one else bothered by this horrifying fate?

He started wandering through the city, scared and insane. He talked to people on the streets, shouted cries of despair, and announced to the world that this was his last day in it. So many things he wanted to do. So many images of unfulfilled dreams and untouched territories fought for a place in his consciousness as the clock ticked away and the sun descended faster than ever. He grew speechless, and had nothing but the company of a mysterious companion who failed to calm him down.

In one day, all dreams shattered, all hope disappeared, and he truly felt the cold selfishness and indifference of the world in his bones. The end approached, and he struggled for a last chance to leave a print on this world and to actually matter. But knowing how impossible that was now, everything became a blur of images and voices that surrounded him like vast waters threatening to swallow a tiny island. He brought his hands close to his face and carefully inspected them as if for the first time. He wanted to burst into tears and to wreak havoc around him, for the idea of not doing all that he wanted to do was too much to bear. Above all, he wished he could find her and look into her eyes like he always wanted to, and to bury his face in her lap and cry and sleep until his end came, knowing he would need nothing but the warmth and security she offered him. But when he couldn’t find her, and the darkness of the night slowly took over, hope was nowhere to be found. As people watched and time was up, breathing proved challenging and he started to choke and tremble with fear. Just when he couldn’t take it anymore, he woke up with all his might to a poorly-lit room and a racing heart that broke the silence. He lay on his bed breathing deeply and trying to recover, and slowly realized that a new day has begun. This thought, however, failed to soothe his distressed mind.

*****

She stood there with her hands on his shoulders and smiled, while he playfully hid his head under her shirt and gently kissed her bellybutton. He slowly made his way upwards, printing kisses on her skin and holding her close, until his lips met her breast and he felt her tremble in his hands. He stood up and kissed her one more time, then held her close to him and closed his eyes. In the peacefulness of the room, they simply stood there united in each other’s arms, and listened to each other breathing. He knew that, when this dream was over, the memory of it would accompany him forever; he just prayed it would help him face what was to come.

*****

There they were again. They seated themselves like they always do and prepared themselves for another wasted day of talking and watching the shadows move on the walls of old houses. It was yet another chapter in a book that never seems to find its last. More drinks, plates, and green olives were summoned to the table. People came and left, and, yet again, time stood still. Important dreams were of course discussed, and past failures were analyzed. The whispers went on as well, as did the serious looks and the private smiles. Everyone took turns in avoiding “what’s wrong?” questions and in asking them, and the same music was played over and over. Eventually, they became one with the leather couch beneath them, where life had previously manifested itself a thousand times with all the heaviness and slowness in the world. And when the time came and it had to end, they left with exhausted minds and bodies and many secret oaths of change and a different tomorrow. At least he did.

*****

It was a time of historical facts; a time when he got to know the different paths and events leading to the characters he always watched but seldom understood. He was living in a chaos of love, hatred, lust, and pain, but on that day he felt like a small lost stream of water finally joining the ocean and eagerly listening to the stories of other streams who made it before. Who knew life had some surprises to offer? He was fascinated by some events, shocked and disappointed by others. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think this was the end of time.

He felt himself leaving his body and watching things like an impartial ghost. After that, every day and every night was like watching a movie. He had the power to slow down time or even pause it, and to simply savor the moment. At some point, sitting alone on an unfamiliar table finishing someone else’s beer and losing himself to the music from his iPod, he became completely paralyzed and could only follow his surroundings with his eyes. He just watched as people laughed, talked, ate, and held hands. He smiled at the familiar feeling visiting him, and embraced the nothingness again; the nothingness that lays down things in a simple manner before his eyes and makes him laugh at how stupid he had been. He loves that feeling, even though, when it passes, it leaves him more lost and troubled than before. And even though time now promises nothing but more randomness and disappointments, he accepted nothingness as his master, and became its prophet. He promised people a bright tomorrow and a day when all things would be better; he spread hope around. What power or guarantees did he have? Nothing – absolutely nothing. But he couldn’t help it.

*****

Dear Sir,

I am truly happy to inform you that we are offering you admission to M.I.T. The Berkeley campus has a strict enrollment ceiling and thus each department is limited in the number of new students it may admit each year. Our department has the difficult task of selecting students with the strongest overall records from a large pool of well-qualified applicants, and you are one of them. Fortunately, this means that we are able to admit you to the Ph.D. in Robotics program at Carnegie Mellon. This decision was reached by the admissions committee after carefully reviewing your application. As you no doubt know, we at Caltech are able to act favorably upon only a small percentage of the thousands of applications we receive each year. In many cases we are unable to offer admission to highly qualified candidates because of limited space and facilities, or because their interests do not coincide sufficiently well with the needs and interests of our faculty. You, however, clearly meet all requirements. Your formal admission letter from Georgia Tech, in addition to other useful information, is available for direct download on our website. We look forward to receiving you at Virginia Tech this Fall, and thank you very much for your application.

Best wishes,
Graduate Affairs Office

P.S. Please do not reply to this e-mail.

*****

The last few months were particularly harsh on him. Time stood still, leaving him fighting for breath in a horrifying state of mind, shaped by basic elements of fear and despair to an extent he never imagined was possible. He lost the will to go on, and was even deprived of the desire and strength to write or talk about it. He let himself go and watched the silver clouds cross the dark sky while the cold wind blasted against his face trying helplessly to wake him up. A week before, he sat outdoors while the gentle muddy raindrops continued to strike his head and land inside the glass of whiskey he was sipping from.

Yes, time did stand still, and he could no longer tell the difference between his days and his nightmares. Washed away by rain, olives, and banality, all backgrounds and colors disappeared, leaving behind a dead man walking, with a thick trace of ashes behind him. A dead man has to find the strength to escape his verdict before he runs into his rope. Maybe this fear is the best thing that ever happened to him.

Filed under: Life, Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts , Life, Thoughts

Quote

“You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.”

Friedrich Nietzsche.

 

Filed under: Life, Personal Experiences, Philosophy , Life, Philosphy, Quotes

Thought

The struggles, the joys, the people around me, every piece of brilliant literature there is, every piece of wonderful music written and played, every movie, every drink, every smile, every tear, every thought, every decision, every crush, every kiss, every touch, every breath, every fit of anger, every laugh, every hope, every disappointment, and every achievement… Everything will one day disappear and fade into nothingness. Like they never happened, our lives will one day vanish. As much as this frustrates me, it calms me too, and makes it easier.

Filed under: Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts , Life, Philosophy, Thoughts

Evanescence

He lay on his bed in the dark, face down, listening to music. He was tired and overwhelmed. He was happy for some reason, yet he felt the emptiness of something that used to hold a place inside of him and that no longer does. His mind troubled him with endless thoughts; memories mostly. It felt as if he was caught in an endless web of memories and loose ends. The more thought he gave an image, the less sense it made to him before slipping away and being replaced by another. The more he tried to contemplate an event he had ‘lived’, the more unreal it seemed. He was helpless, like someone who just woke up after a very long sleep and tried in vain to word the thousand clips of dreams he has just witnessed. All that’s left are bits and pieces, traces of feelings, and a strong, almost real, sense of being. It was one of those dreams that go on after you wake up; an extension of another existence, rudely infringing upon his consciousness and demanding a bigger role in his life. And all he could do was surrender to its will, and remember.

And he did.

He remembered worrying about schedules, technicalities, and money so much that he tried drinking himself to sleep. He remembered pondering commitments and deadlines and feeling sick for days. He remembered waiting for a flight in a large crowded hall with a coffee in his hand. And he remembered taking off and disappearing in the darkness of the night. He also remembered truly smiling for the first time in days as he saw the light break the blackness that extended outside his window. He had watched sunrises before, but not like this one. The horizon turned into a sublime spectrum of colors that extended as wide as he could see, and the thin rainbow slowly split the sky in half and lit the floor of clouds beneath him. The mercy of nature took over, and the heaviness that weighed him down for so long slowly diminished as the sky got brighter and brighter until there was nothing running through his head but the beautiful pink shapes before his eyes. From that moment on, everything was put on hold, and a new life began. He didn’t even have to close his eyes and dream.

He remembered touching down. He remembered a train ride and the beauty of the green fields under the grey sky. It was all so real. He dragged his bags in the rain on the streets of that city. Yes, he had been here before, and somehow he had forgotten how breathtaking the city was. The markets, the people, the scattered art here and there. He stifled his laugh and went on dragging his luggage wearing a stupid and sincere smile on his face. The raucous noise the wheels of his bags made occasionally attracted some questioning stares, which he answered with a proud look. He had earned this; he was finally there, and there’s nothing they could do about it. He met a Turk, a Greek, and a Syrian. He walked some more in the rain, took a bus ride, was given a small cold room, and had a cold meal from the only open shop he could find; so began his strange stay there, and he simply enjoyed how radically different  his day had been.

The daily walk and the daily bus ride were particularly pleasant experiences for him. The music from his music player just perfected the sceneries and the image of the people around him as he mingled with the elements of life of the city; he had received that music player as a birthday gift two years before in this same city, and he couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it all.

The dream was colorful and kind enough to include images of the crowded streets late at night… holding conversations with people from all over the world using what seemed at times like a universal language they could all understand… being helplessly lost in translation on so many other occasions… drinking with relish with the people he so quickly became used to… laughing his heart out for no particular reason with complete strangers… singing like no one is listening… sunsets and sunrises…  passion, excitement, fear, and anger… the sea… the mountains… and hundreds and hundreds of unbearably rushing thoughts.

I think he found some answers too. He ran his life in a way he always looked forward to. He had been waiting and working and imagining for so long that it took some time for him to realize he was finally there. Life made sense for the first time. He was thrown in the midst of completely new variables and surroundings, yet it was only there that he realized what he had in him the whole time. Now that the nuisances of his usual life, the people and things that have simply been there for too long, are suddenly gone, he had the sort of fresh perspective he forgot about. He had been looking out a dirty window for so long, before someone suddenly came and wiped it clean for a change, revealing both new and forgotten details. And as the clock ticked away towards the end of the dream, he could only savor each hour, steal all the living he found, and hold on to each discovery and result he learned. The hope was that, when he finally wakes up, things won’t be the same again. After all, this kind of confidence and newly-found perspective of things should probably last with him for quite some time – a lifetime even.

Eventually, like I said, he did wake up. Hung over. The rush and momentum he had picked up kept him going for some time. He managed all the things he was worried about a couple of months ago, and he was back exactly where he was. As the memories and resolutions he reached started to slowly vaporize with the steady passage of time, they were being replaced by that familiar and heavy sense of frustration and suffocating. People annoyed and hurt him again, his confidence shook at the slightest ordeal, and the window before his eyes was slowly getting clouded and smudged again. And it will remain that way until something wipes it clean.

But now he realizes that the hand that reaches outside and cleans off the dirt this time is going to have to be his own. If he could see clearly and be satisfied with himself somewhere, he should manage to do that everywhere. Change cannot be brought to him. It has to come from within, and stick with him. So now, when he works, he works for that. Everything else is evanescent. Everything else is dirt on the glass. Everything else is a bad dream.

Filed under: Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts , Life, Philosophy, Thoughts, Work

Time Off

Never have I found words this evasive and beyond my grasp as I do these days. I have been struggling lately to write down my thoughts, to communicate them, and to simply vent some of the pressure that I’ve been feeling, only to find myself vacuous when I intend to do so. I’ve been doing a lot of sitting, reading, observing, and contemplating. I didn’t feel like leaving my place much. I watched four or five new movies, and replayed a couple of old ones… I made several checklists each day. I’ve crossed out most of them – things that I could do from this chair right here… I’ve listened to music, and I’ve watched the sun set on the old houses on the hill across my house every day; sometimes, from where I sit, the view from my window seems more like an odd portrait I’ve seen in some book or some movie. It’s as if I had hung this big picture on my wall; a picture whose shades and colors change as the day progresses into night. It’s funny how the reflection of the sunlight off those houses affects my mood. But then again, perhaps it is my mood that affects the way I view the picture, much like Dorian’s inner soul manifests itself on his portrait… I tried to plan the exciting times I have ahead of me. I haphazardly jumped from one thought to the other, wondering and worrying about how each of them would affect me or fit into the large scheme of events that I deem ideal for me and my ‘future’. I scribbled away on my board. Occasionally, I would throw a ball against the wall in front of my desk, catch it, and throw it back over and over, until I am unaware that I am doing it… I’ve admitted things to myself and to others, and I’ve sent out some of the most foolish e-mails in the history of e-mailing… I dreamt, and I planned, and I felt like something is coming soon to change the way things are. It could be good, and it could be bad, but the status quo is soon to be disturbed, that’s for sure.

Thoughts. Endless thoughts. What are they now? Which ones troubled me? Which ones filled me with joy and enthusiasm? I can’t remember. It feels like I exerted more effort this week, at home, on this chair, than I have in the last two years at work. Time off? No such thing. I will always be consumed, it seems, by my thoughts and worries, by my joys and aspirations, by my plans and work, and by trying to figure out what the hell it is that I am supposed to be doing and why.

This takes me back, yet again and again, to the fact that life is the funniest and most mysterious thing of all. It has no meaning and no purpose. I was born, and I shall die, at some time in the future, whether I struggle or take it easy. My entire existence is a blink of an eye, a result of chance and the continuation of processes that have persisted for millions of years. Yet here I am, trying with all my might to change it; to create meaning. A few German language courses have led me to a month in Germany – a reason to be smiling for quite some time, some say. Maybe some chances there? Perhaps just a great vacation with some more learning? Two years in a tedious and ridiculous job have worn me down to the extent that I now want nothing but to be accepted at a top university to continue my ‘studies’ and catch up with my ‘Plan A’ of always excelling and being part of the elite; to contribute and produce and satisfy my intellectual needs. Is my despair here now reason enough to pursue that? Perhaps not. And the effort needed to get back on that track is certainly discouraging. But it seems like the only move I have at my disposal at the moment; to open new doors, and to carve new paths for the flow of ‘life’ to follow. Am I really changing my life? Will I ever be happy with any of those things? I don’t know. All I know is that it doesn’t really matter.

I don’t feel like writing anymore.

Filed under: Life, Miscellaneous, Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts , Life, Meaning, Philosophy, Thoughts, Work

Life is But a Dream

Why do the burdens of life suffocate me when I know they mean nothing at all? The few dim traces of hope I can see keep me going, but what’s the point? Soon they will be over. Life in all its complexity adds up to nothing, and the madness of that is overwhelming. I scream and scream, but no one will ever hear me, as my voice mingles with the cries of the darkness around, and everything turns into harsh noise; it’s like the entire universe is crying and wailing, and the absurdity of my being is whispering and giggling in my ears, like a wicked witch, driving me to madness, until I can bear it no more. Suddenly all the noises and deafening shouts are stifled, and there is nothing left but the coldness and silence of reality. Indeed, nothing is left but my corpse and a pair of gentle lips that have been whispering in my ears all along, hoping that I can finally rest in peace: 

Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.

Filed under: Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts

Hidden Beauty

“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.”
Confucius

I’ve been asked to ponder the idea of hidden beauty. Here’s some of what crossed my mind.

Her hidden rebellion, shining from within. Her love for life and music in the true senses of the word. Her awkwardness, intelligence, true kindness, and passion. This carefully-hidden beauty lies in her words and thoughts, and I am filled with the true joy of a happy kid whenever it shines in my face…

A silent compartment set above our heads. Some inscriptions contrast the light color of the marble; a name, a couple of dates, a picture, and a verse that was selected from half a dozen available ones, and that we thought represented him best. A burnt candle and a dead flower have been waiting since the last visit, and an old lady at the end of the dusty path that contains tens of similar resting places seems to have been watering her son’s plants and waiting for something to happen since forever. I drag the small steps we found there so my mother can reach up and touch the stone. I move my eyes between his picture and the tens of used matchsticks around us, and I wonder what I should do. I don’t want to promise ‘him’ the same things I always do when I find myself speechless there. It feels more stupid each time, yet it makes me feel a bit better. I look around me and see plants and flowers and silent people staring at their own lost ones. Even butterflies and happy singing birds come here. It truly is a resting place, but for the living. The hidden beauty of the silence, the comfort of promises made to dead ears, the recollection of memories and the telling of old and new stories. Dead flowers are replaced, candles lit, and incense burnt, and I start to see that these things are done for the sake of the living, not the dead. The randomness and stupidity of life is only surpassed by the meaninglessness of death, and this is the only place that so calmly and beautifully presents both to you. The dead are long gone, and the stupid living ones hang on to their remains for a fake sense of meaning, secretly wishing that soon they will be the ones sleeping, and someone else with burdens and memories will be lighting candles for them…

Whether you reach a desired result or not, whether you succeed or horribly fail, work is the most beautiful deed there is. Yes, work. No matter how old and how clichéd that sounds, work holds the most beautiful of pictures in its harsh and tiresome pages. It is work that makes me what I am, and it is work that I choose to do, and through which I change myself and things around me. The centuries of hard work hold with them the secrets of our current knowledge and strength, and the hidden beauty of the journey eventually surfaces and masks the tears and sweat…

Another friend, another character, and, most importantly, another artist in the making has entered my life. Lots of shades colour her character, but perhaps the most beautiful are the ones she tries to hide. Her eyes scream with who she is and what she turned out to be, no matter how much she tries to hide it. The hidden beauty is that of her tired anger and sadness that she never lets out or shares, while making sure the people around her see how beautiful their lives are. How ironic that an artistic person like her, one who tries wherever she goes to capture beauty in the things no one notices, would find it hard to discuss such a topic. I guess all she had to do to be inspired was to see and feel what we see and feel when we catch her staring into the distance, so occupied with something, and with the saddest, most serious, and most beautiful look that anyone can manage to draw on his or her face, with no effort whatsoever…

Filed under: Arts, Life, Miscellaneous, Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts , Beauty, Thoughts

As I Died

It’s the future, some fifty years from now, one minute before I die. My thoughts are in turmoil, and I can only try and hold on to that feeling as it slips away. Being alive suddenly has a new meaning. Actually thinking is what feels strange now. I am faced by the reality that I will never again get this feeling, that I will never again know what it is like to ponder things, to experience, to wonder, to get ideas, to feel bad, and to feel good. And so at once I am filled with heavy sadness, the kind of sadness you see on the faces of the dying as they get crippled and close their eyes for the last time, but always figure it is because they are afraid of what’s coming or afraid of losing the people they love. It’s not. At least, it wasn’t for me. As I was dying, all I wanted was to feel those stupid everyday feelings again; to be annoyed by the hot sun, to figure out a problem, to be angered by my mistakes, to click with someone, to impress myself, to wake up tired in the morning, to decide something, to forget, to remember, and to count on another day to do it all again, and hopefully better. But there is no better now. That was it; a series of stupid events that will end now. But in the big picture of things, no one will notice any difference. My cells will decay, and the chemical reactions in my head will simply cease to occur. And so, and to the dismay of the few poor people who stuck around with me till that moment, I started laughing! I laughed because I realized that I was another old fool, who spent his life worrying and struggling to become better, only to realize, on the verge of death, that his agony and train of thoughts, his disappointments, are all he ever had, and that he should have held on to them and danced in joy with every thought that he fathered. And as I died, I simply decided to let my thoughts occur on their own, creating ideas and generating mixed feelings, and I sank into that euphoric pool for the last time, and slipped away.

Filed under: Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts , Death, Life, Thoughts

Meaning

Unimaginable numbers of tiny particles, atoms, and molecules interact together, combine, rotate, bounce off, and change; one second they group to build things, the next second they break down and disintegrate… Numerous cells ‘live’, divide, multiply, consume other cells, fight, and die… Billions of ‘conscious’ entities, breathe, eat, gather in societies, think, utter sounds, move things around, fight, love, hate, orgasm, age, give birth, and die; they lead their lives in what falsely seems to be nothing short of a systematic manner; with purpose, and a logical progress of events.

It’s suffocating me, burying me alive. Every day, it’s the same people, the same events, the same ‘happenings’, the same ideas and hopes, and the exact same disappointments. Life, it seems, has lost all traces of originality, randomness, and of course sense and meaning. And now, even after reaching the conclusion that it has no meaning – that it is completely up to me to accept that fact and through my actions create whatever purpose and meaning that I see fit – I am left with nothing but sad emptiness, the sort of emptiness that was previously filled by purpose, by checklists, by schedules, by the cozy plan that I had, and by simply losing myself in the flow of events of what then seemed a highly systematic and logical life. Now I realize that it is up to me to press the pause button. And I have.

I look around me now and see everybody doing what is supposed to be done; everyone is active, and yet so idle. People, it seems, have willingly buried their heads under this cozy blanket of ‘life’, and have filled the emptiness, the emptiness born with them, with a series of events that seem to have been tailored to occupy their minds in order to avoid facing the emptiness itself. And so I lifted up my head from under the transparent blanket, and for the first time sensed the chillness of reality, and waited in vain to get adjusted to the new conditions. Like a spirit leaving its body, I slowly rose up, and realized for the first time what it feels like to simply watch things, see them for what they truly are, and hear nothing at all.

I kept rising until the whole universe was nothing more than a crystal ball that I held between my hands, and I watched with the eyes of a passive, bored god. I brought it close to my face, and watched those atoms, cells, and entities, moving around, and bumping into each other. Now it all seemed random. Now it all looked too fragile. All the petty worries and problems I have, and everyone else has, are nothing but silly events, that could have simply not been. I saw events happen, and I saw events about to happen, and I witnessed the stupidity of it all. One stupid thing leading to another stupid thing, and a collection of similar events giving rise to complete lives… How fragile was it! How insanely fragile. I even went back and witnessed the day the term ‘purpose’ was created, after which, and funnily enough, those ‘conscious’ entities seemed to be a bit more relieved.

Suddenly, the happiness I briefly felt, having seen and understood, was replaced by great anger. Anger at the time I wasted playing along and blindly leading my own set of events and worrying so much about reaching my ‘destination’, rather than realizing that there is no destination, and that my enormous problems are nothing but empty events shaped by chance; they could have simply been someone else’s problems, or even nothing at all.

And so I started shaking this crystal ball, the crystal ball that has it all. I shook it madly, I shook it so hard, until not one atom stayed where it used to be, not one entity retained its ‘identity’, and all events changed. Everything flew around and swirled. And when I stopped, everything started to slowly fall down and settle; the pretty snowflakes inside my crystal globe. Then it was all silent.

Of course, that only lasted a few seconds. For in no time, atoms were bouncing off again, cells were replicating, and ‘conscious’ entities were leading new lives. Quickly, people found purpose again in the ‘meaningful’ events around them, and things went back to ‘normal’.

So what should I do now? Should I stay here and watch? Should I shake my globe one more time and see what happens? Or should I go back, beneath the blanket, and join the random flow of events?

With a mixture of hope, sadness, and excitement, I gave the globe one last shake, then closed my eyes and dove in. The way I saw it, I will either be reborn as another blind entity, oblivious to the true emptiness of being, to lead my life, worry about my problems, and die happily. Or I could realize the beautiful and stupid randomness of it all, know that I can never leave the globe, then lose all my worries, and live a miserable life that only lightens up whenever I choose to play with the cells and molecules around me to create a temporary spike of meaning, beauty, purpose, or whatever you may choose to call it, and then hope that it will last forever, or at least stay until everyone and all things that have interacted with it, myself included, are long gone, or transformed into other entities and events. And as I descended, my cells and molecules disintegrating and mixing with the random mess of atoms beneath me, I secretly hoped that it would turn out to be the latter case.

Filed under: Philosophy, Thoughts , God, Life, Meaning

The Essence

To seek happiness at the bottom of towering stacks of books. To solemnly believe that one can walk through the doors of perfection and superiority, satisfy the need for a purpose, and figure out the essence of life, only through unveiling and understanding all the mysteries and secrets of the universe. The drive to reach absolute knowledge; to conquer it all. It’s the most beautiful of all curses.

‘I do not imagine I know aught that’s right;
I do not imagine I could teach what might
Convert and improve humanity.
Nor have I gold or things of worth,
Or honours, splendours of the earth.
No dog could live thus any more!
So I have turned to magic lore,
To see if through the spirit’s power and speech
Perchance full many a secret I may reach,
So that no more with bitter sweat
I need to talk of what I don’t know yet,
So that I may perceive whatever holds
The world together in its inmost folds,
See all its seeds, its working power,
And cease word-threshing from this hour.’

From Goethe’s Faust.

So that I may perceive whatever holds, the world together in its inmost folds: “was die Welt im Innersten zusammenhält”.

Filed under: Philosophy, Science and Technology , Faust, Knowledge, Life, Quest