Nothing stands as it presents

Plodding wearily through Marcel Proust’s meandering, long, complex sentences packed with figurative, tonic tropes marked by moving analogies, characters’ personalities, introspective tracing of thoughts and their processes, sense of exaltation in the form of the sixth sense sired by mindful observances of fleeting impressions and feelings that of sensuality, stumbling on mnemonic small events as a powerful aid for sparking off long forgotten personal events as flashbacks, I happened to get stuck to a faint thought, rather poking at me to come out and indite in my own way, that questioned me about the need of such engagements intellectually or stark illiterately. Yes, really, having something to do does matter, especially now at this juncture of modern age, the age of looming loneliness worked off by petty internet related means that are literally for brain drain. And, yes, having something important to do as per one’s own way of rating does matter. Then why not something out of stark selfless motive, something like letting other or others have a relief from any self-formed anguish by undoing it without obtruding oneself upon them as undoing it. 

And the great question remains of its, such sense of exaltation, ineffably beyond the grip of ‘the government of reason’, being able to tune the subject into a liberated being off the flurries of chaotic, discriminatory mental constructs, to render it really fecund, engaged but not just in one’s own reverie. But greater or more ineffable revelation can be reached through the core doings of wisdom-intellect-based mental activities rather than just pure personal taste and satisfaction and something like saying ‘It makes me happy.’ And, yes, whether lastingly liberating or not, such phenomena of exaltation, heuristically discoverable by anyone, are there as a trail of dream, our own projections, no ground for any presumptuous self-enlargement that could toss you into the same grossness of yours, the same mundane you. 

Thus to carry on ahead to our sweet home, could be analogized by the infinity of void or space, whereupon even this notion of subjectivity, there being a fabricator, is already blotted out. Then just the space and infinity, the true liberation. But, casting a look back, there being those innumerable still shackled to the notion of  rigidity and self-consequence far off the internalized realm of seeing personal projections as what they are to shutting them out to the nature of space by the fierce reductio ad absurdum of proving the groundlessness of the fabricator, for one is merged with such everlasting infinity by virtue of the grossness of one’s being, through being aware of it, the ledge to greatness through honing on ever… Then you can pave a way for others as well, why not. 

Having something meaningful to do does matter, meaningfulness in terms of why we live for. Having something coveted for doesn’t remain the same as when one dreams for it. And it’s itself a great proof of fact and fancy, romantic idea and reality. 

And, at last, as we were born alone, we have to leave alone the aftermath of which remains stark mysterious to us, but there is such a phenomenon bereft of what we have rigged up materially in this life. Yes, saying as a ledge does matter for seeing and acting accordingly.