I believe that life is something that can be carefully planned, controlled and has a purpose. Occasionally I get a blow so hard that I am shattered in million pieces. It’s a known feeling, it is familiar. It’s the feeling of utter failure. I build sand castles in the wind, at the seashore, waiting for the tide. And in my world the tides are fierce.
The experience of chaos brings a transient awareness of the fabric of life. It suspends time. It undoes everything done before. It makes me look stupid – before my own eyes – as the eyes of others don’t matter or have already made their condescending judgement. It leaves me powerless, frozen, awkward. It takes my illusions away.
I am left pondering on whether this world is actually ruled by the devil.
The blow of the absurdity in my life has a distinct trickster archetypal energy. My Trickster is brutal, violent, murderous, hates life, has no compassion. It comes from my own shadow which I don’t know and refuse to face even in a projected form. It lures me into hating life and creation and the fundamental unfairness of this life I was thrown into.
I am old.
I know that there were never guarantees – or promises – or agreements – for getting this or that. The entire game is wicked and made in such a way so that you lose no matter what you do. In the end, you die. There is no stake. It never was and it will never be. There is no road and no destination. It is only “this”. And “now”. And that’s it.
I am in a time of contemplation. What is to be done? It is worth doing something? How much time do I have left? How many resources are still left? Do I still “want” to do it?
Meditations like these don’t last. Old habits return and I resume believing that life can be carefully planned, controlled and has a purpose. I need these concepts; without them I lose my mind completely. But, somewhere hidden inside me, there lies the Void – the borderline void – the complete futility of everything that is.
For now, before the illusions return, I enjoy music. It exists. It has no purpose, no meaning, leads to nowhere. There is no hurry to reach its end. Music can’t be “accomplished”; when it’s “accomplished”, it’s over, its life is consumed, it escapes one’s grip. Music is valid only as long as it lasts.
Similarly to life.
I always encounter the Absurd in my life with music and with my inner Void. I always fend a catastrophe with the dessert inside my own soul. It’s the Void inside greeting the one outside.