blind regular

As you browse through the words, the esteemed reader is faced with the question, “What am I reading now?”

On one of the pages, there is something like, “Forget the answer, it is the unfortunate fate of that question.” Yes, if possible, we will try to make a journey by stopping and stopping in front of the questions, without lingering too long in the need for answers.

I would like to point out that you have started a book that is partly absurd, partly meaningful but also meaningless, funny and bitter, partly boring, and who knows, maybe even interesting.

This is not like a novel, it is fiction, even more so, perhaps a square one, and even grotesque.

We are a species that desires to measure, classify, name, define, and know everything in the world, including the number of moss, lichens, and ants. We do this to make life meaningful. For meaning, we need experience, definition, and effort. To define more and more clearly, we also need to dissect, divide, compare, measure, and measure, to win the race, and to establish an order based on rational logic.

We are constantly striving, and our efforts enslave us in a spiral of ever-deepening reality psychosis. Believing that we can produce the positive with a mind that divides and fragments is as absurd as thinking we can achieve peace through war; the absurdity itself is the painful yet comical condition underlying our regime of need, the very foundation upon which we live.

Don't you think it's grotesque?

We are acutely aware of this hypocrisy, and on one side we feel ashamed and rebel. On the other, we strive to make bearable the world in which we are doomed to perish, yet somehow we are born (and fall) into it.

Perhaps the issue hinges on this "making it bearable" point. Driven by the motivation of being condemned to extinction, in the rush of this finite life, humans manage to organize for destruction, following a silent impulse without receiving any commands from anyone. Don't be angry with us; this is our predicament, oh reader who will set sail for suffering.

We are exposed to increasing doses of poisoning in the grotesque world park, there is no one among us to hold responsible for the course of events, we are orphans trapped in our way of existence, having found our material self in our bodies but not yet able to establish our spiritual equation, swinging back and forth on the swings in the playground with childish naivety, nurturing dreams of reuniting with our other halves from whom we were separated, but having fun while swinging.

Isn't that grotesque enough for you?

In the park's accepted reality, life is grotesque with its comical moments, absurdities, and paradoxes. Amidst all this turmoil, the human spirit can sometimes cut the knot of tolerance and sail across the vastness of the ocean in search of the unknowable, the truth. What matters isn't the answer to the question, "What am I reading now?" but the excitement of embarking on the journey.