Perhaps the poetry we find most beautiful are the ones that
are purposefully left most vague, because it allows us to weave our own stories
between the letters. and for some reason, seeing our story, interwoven on a
string of vague beautiful words, makes our lives seem more aesthetic and
meaningful. As if the very credence that those words exist, the words that hold
one’s story, solidifies the credence of one’s life itself. It is as if the
vagueness and mysticism of the page reinforces the mysticism of the world. Away
from scientific explanations into everything mathematical, and into the
mysticism that our lives, and our existence. Matters.
And you know what is really
interesting, is that, their lives do become more aesthetic and meaningful. As
the experience of life is inevitably subjective; the credence of those words,
the mysticism they entail, and the beauty they create for someone. is real.
And so through the power of the human imagination, an
imaginary interweaving of one’s own life on an inert page of texts powerfully
transforms the human spirit. The only thing we are kidding ourselves about is that
the poem made our lives more meaningful. The poem isn’t real.
Sometimes I stop and think. And realize. Realize that the
world is degrading, my everyday routine activities are meaningless, and I’ve
become so trapped and bombarded with consumerism culture that I feel suffocated
by my own things. And then I think, I wish I lived in a time not marked by such
petty shallow ways of life like consumerism. I get nostalgic of what it must be
like to live in a world that isn’t going to destruct due to overpopulation and
overconsummerism. I think of all the great thinkers, Alexis de Toquevile, Weber, Durkheim,
and how they always have a sense of nostalgia for the past. No matter what
century, there is always nostalgia for the past, and that makes me think. Maybe
our nostalgia for the past is a way to try to convince ourselves that the meaninglessness
of life we feel sometimes today is only due to our culture, conditions or
context. not to the meaninglessness of life itself. And then I realize that
every philosopher of every century was nostalgic, and that my nostalgia
probably does not represent a true reality of a better past, but rather a plea
that life at one point had meaning…
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