I have been awfully naughty. I just finished a box of chocolates, seven truffles and pralines, and I am rediscovering Mood as a capricious mistress. Because there are times when coping with life’s uncertainties leave me feeling fucked over and wondering where did all the years go and asking wasn’t I supposed to be a spectacular success and ga-zillionaire by now? But today Mood is a benevolent dominatrix and I feel good being forked over. There’s no million pound bank account and next week I quit my corporate job (and an unproductive working relationship) for business startup world; setting off to “change my world” and who knows maybe even “the world”. So what my future is not neatly mapped out with deterministic outcomes; so what the prospect of doing something amazing is as thrilling as the risk of failure is terrifying; so what the future may not always be “alright”? Whatever the situation there will be at least one solution; of that I am convinced. I just need to keep calm, think clearly and execute. I will also need luck. So I’m feeling good right now and being something of an existentialist is, maybe, responsible for that. Or it might just be the chocolate.
This sky, my sky was blue with joy all day. How quickly this sky, my sky turned black from exhaustion; worn out from weary obeisance to King Sun whose splendour is glimpsed one half of every twenty four hours. This night, my night of winking stars; stars shimmering behind fuzzy white clouds; stars alive far beyond the constricted perimeter of our solar cocoon. Tonight’s constellation I can only imagine for the universe, my universe, is walled behind the fog that floats below the sky, my sky. I hear the drones of aeroplanes flying above cotton buds pregnant with vapour and I am comforted that at least someone up there is pondering how wondrous it is to be one with stardust. My stardust.
We sometimes come upon pronouncements that are such perfect reflections of our own mind that we wonder if coming upon those words was just pure chance or instigated by divine intention.
“Chance alone is at the source of every innovation, of all creation in the biosphere … this central concept of modern biology is no longer one among other possible hypotheses…it is the only one that squares with observed and tested fact. And nothing warrants the… hope that on this score our position is likely ever to be revised. There is no scientific concept, in any of the sciences, more destructive of anthropocentrism than this one.” – Jacques Monod
Those that I envy the most are not the rich or the great or even the famous, the young or the beautiful but the souls who live spontaneously in non-metronomic rhythm; in step with the drum that calls a man to life and to live. I, on the other hand, feel mostly, girdled, girded round, encircled, a bone-dry mummy entombed in a crypt and sentenced to a display cage in a museum. What hell to be constrained within the prison cells of pragmatism and convention! It is as if the souls of the bodies that I see outside of me are actually inside of me; maggots wending a slimy pathway through my thoughts, giving the thumbs up to ideas that meet not the dictionary’s definition of common sense but the public interpretation of it and then shooting down all my attempts to escape and float upwards on the lofty air of rhapsodic discovery. Those souls out there, outside of my imagined reality, living erringly or truthfully but always spontaneously: surely they are my true brothers and sisters; my long lost aunts anxious to send me on my merry way laden with provisions of honey and ambrosia. My magic carpet is ready to fly.