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Oct. 27, 2004 How can this frail observer, crowning himself with the beacon of self-consciousness, who stands naked with wonder, confusion, attitude of judgement and ultimately wrapped in absurdity, divide the images of nature into representation and reflector? The one being that has discovered Mind, who lugs the burden of sentiment and the thwarting vestige of base animal makeup, is still faced with seeing himself in the movements of his surroundings. It seems as though he simply cannot shake the afterbirth of his all too natural origin, and so his wondering eyes seem to gather water just like the ancient rivers on the earth where he now finds himself walking impatiently up and down, cursed by profound thought. As this self-labelled intelligence struggles to become ‘the real human it ought to be’, it undergoes a certain kind of sadness at the same time; it senses the rain on the wearing skin and exclaims that the empty heavens are crying, and then again, that it is the sweat of crazed nature sweltering under the half-dying sun. When it pushes against the angry wind on its way through the wide-open spaces, it imagines a raging vortex in the eye of the storm about its own truthfulness flying off into blind direction; these winds of atmospheric motion mirrors the turbulent truths of the many minds about a single theory! What is force, what is frustration! Which damned force is against which other! Is it all a fight against itself? Is there indeed a war between the elements or does the individual occupation annihilate its own? Oh yes, the storm outside is an image of the discord within the human being. But the sun has set and tomorrow it will rise again as always, or will it? Will the moon make its way before the observers recline to their lunacy and before they close the eyes of awareness for the very last time? What is this insanity of thought, this sickness of the thinking organ? Will the skies ever really be blue without the end of fading into blackness at the cyclical realisation of dead reality? Can we resurrect this pretty dead reality without the fear of creating even more chaos with a living reality? For sure, my fellow thinkers, reality is a very dead thing, because only the living can invent, and inventions are never alive; they would self- destruct in the most horrifying way if ever given the light of day. “And the un-real?” you ask, well, just look at the all too abstemious mind: it stares dead reality in the face and becomes drunk, intoxicated, even creative and levelled by fictional suggestion by the mere image of it! It smells reality and recognises the odour of deceased creation, and then it drowns itself in the ocean of a melted dream of truth… Thus the representation and the reflector draw from one another; man notices himself in the nature of nature and is disgusted, even depressed about the actuality of similarity. He asks himself whether he will ever feel alien towards his natural beginning. It is a vital moment which mankind has reached long ago when it became an intellectual being; it is the moment of realisation that in order to become true intelligence unburdened by the core essence of its animal or natal comprise, it will have to necessitate the action of a transformation by some novel force of its own design into the realm of universal sovereignty; man will have to part from his participation in the form of a terrestrial species and assume the new form of a cosmic force…it must become a swift footed god who can move across the paths and dimensions of space and time, for only then will it be able to observe and to change the universe according to its own whims. It must do away with all faiths in higher powers and become such a power itself; it must believe in itself and become its own god. ------------ About the author Werner Reyneke: I am a 23 year old passionate writer/poet in my spare time and a computer programmer by proffession. Visit my website to see my first published book. I live in South Africa and have been published in a local newspaper (some poems in Haiku form) for the first time in February 2000. I have also been selected for publication in a VoicesNet Anthology (visit www.Voicesnet.org) and a Poetry.com (ILP Publishers) anthology called "Eternal Portraits"). Visit my website at: http://myweb.absa.co.za/wreyneke/Mybook.htm Email: wreyneke@absamail.co.za Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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