A prospect of madness

 

Would you call me mad if I can confess of a certainty in the prospect of the future, even when I fully acknowledge that the vicissitudes of Time can easily outsmart the most rigorous mathematical prediction; yes I was sure that in ten years’ time I would be looking back to this very same day – today – as the fantasy of a naïve child’s imagination that mistook the nature of reality for that of a game: haven’t I erred in my conviction that life is best lived through the transformation of its contents into those poetic representations that plunge me into an ecstatic state of mind, in other words, in trying to grasp life by its tail by scrutinizing every tottering thread of Time had I not missed the meaning of reality by inspecting it too minutely, too unsparingly as to leave out of the range of my investigations the global experience of existence?

I saw in that Delphic vision a day when all these conglomerates of experience that surround me today would be no more than the debris of a vanished Past, a trivial irony that would have no more power to excite my cynical laughter. That day will come when I rent a paltry hotel room in Belgrade, killing my time with a lousy inexpensive hooker and when night comes I will stare despairingly at the ceiling wondering if abandoning my youthful delusions was a wise choice, since by then I would have purged myself of any prospect in the road of human creativity and would be living in the pulsation of every naked minute, suffering like every other human being in the claws of the beast of existence. And every so often I would glimpse outside my window to see a crumbling civilization and I shall utter words such as these:

 

Withered petals gliding down
Breaking from their cone
Into scattered puddles in the street
Let each petal leave my rose
Each desire run away
All sorrow, regret and concern
Vanish below –
What is it to me that we must die
Why should I carry the burden
Of Fate’s indifference to us?

 

Contemporary observations

If Kafka’s works became so renown for expressing a sort of futility in life, a conformist frustration with the operations of society; it must be a sign that people have shared in this same suffering. Each generation must have some idiosyncrasy that the most representative writers get to explore and express. What peculiarity belongs to the early years of the 21st century? It’s hard to imagine any human ever devoid of The Search, a hunt for something, whatever it may be—considering we are desiring animals. So desire (fulfilled or frustrated) will always be playing a role, but the conditions where it arises are different each time. Our age’s most predominant traits are the expansion of technology, communication and the understanding of the cosmos through science. Everybody still eats, sleeps, fucks, travels, watches sports, marries, gets divorced, believes in God or no god. The difference now is the scope of our vision, enlarged by the aid of technology and science. There is still uncertainty in what the ideal politics should be (not unlike the Cold War era), and the optimal economic doctrines (aren’t the world poverty rates an alarming setback in our hopes for the success of a free market economy?). Life nowadays is an acceleration of pleasure. Society rears a career-hunting crowd TRUSTING in the utopia of happiness through material well-being. How long will it last, will natural resources outlive our greediness? Or will human immoderation cause the demise of our consumerist ideals when global warming or another oil crisis takes hold of the world? And when we turn to the individual’s inner life can we claim we have gained greater interior harmony with the easily accessible pleasures that technological entertainment affords us?