I wait near a shadow. I absorb absurdity. In needing to be right, I presume the greater good. A man was with despair. He gave his life to subjectivity. He died an outcast.
Faced by it. An existential impasse. I run a risk of becoming inactive. Watching sameness of participation, repetition becomes a blur, a person must reach inside to move forward.
I imagine anything related to mind activity is mutable, thus, it carries nuance. I’ve seen it. The abnormal becomes normal, we see patterns, parallels, we grow in direction: it depends. I’ve a supposition, philosophy is leaning towards the empirical.
In a society where subjectivity is widespread, unless with temperament, pure objectivity might not give to humans what remains essential.
Life, by its activity, is without logic, we impose reason, life is inherently chaotic, with humans searching for meaning.
Indeed. Most know this. We don’t live this.
I speculate softly—it seems humans are wrestling with variations of unease. Again. It’s not a great secret. I surmise that unease becomes pieces of anguish. With anguish becoming idiosyncrasies … particles disputing full on sanity … denial, assertion, sorrow.
By condition humans are living in limbo, faced by perdition, happy, if normal, to have family, friends, children, careers, literature, & pursuits. With life tugging.
A flower sits, winds blow it to & fro, it absorbs sunlight, it braves the winters … it has life. We assert it feels. It suffers. It has a short existence. Subject to the elements.
Humans reason—for goodness, for badness. The ideal is to become excellent—at living & warding off life.
