Can’t we bear instantaneous reality without any tremor? Can’t we writhe in pain in its piercing torments? Can’t we laugh bravely and be grateful for its benevolence?
It is as if we need a veil of mysticism to enjoy the terror and beauty of the reality(the reality endowed to us mortals by our senses and not any ‘apparent’ reality). We cannot face our tragedies because their terrific sights will plunder us of our sanity and mercilessly wipe out all our existences. On the other side we cannot even acknowledge our happiness because of the black fear of losing it.
And so, we use our best faculties to create armours harder than steel so that our soft, wormlike existence is always sheathed.
Like a coward in combat we crouch behind our pavises without aiming our arrows or drawing our swords. And what are those shields we have carved out of our intelligence – the escapist’s method of choosing not to live an instantaneous life. Men had spent aeons for learning the technique of reading whatever is written. We apply that hard earned skill as our shield against time’s onslaught and the army it brings with it – pain, pleasure and suchlike multitudes.
This is how we do it - we read our lives. We read our lives from a fable called ‘Memory’. Memory - a fable written by ourselves. We do not grasp our life’s oncoming instances. We read that too. This time from a crystal ball called ‘Hope’. Hope - a contraption we devised out of dire necessity.
While we read, our swords rust in their leather scabbards.
