The impossibility of truth
7 ½ pieces (some now extinct) by
What can be known is always relative to the epoch of one’s life. There are no compelling certainties in existence. There are assumptions, opinions, approximations. A truth today is myth tomorrow. The answers one finds are vague and incomplete. We are only certain of the incomprehensibility of our sojourn on this earth.
“…it is too late to be wise, that in any case it would serve no purpose, for the same abyss will engulf us all, wise and foolish alike, sane and mad…” – E.M. CIORAN
Feel the beating of the prison heart? The days keep pounding, a tick of brutal rational abstraction that frames the irrational motion of life. And here we are before valiant works of art? As if art could redeem or justify our feeling of emptiness. Art is a game we take up to squander time. A colorful disguise to conceal the blank meaninglessness within. But it does not matter. Our experiences are short-lived and will disappear when the heart becomes a soft dead stone that beats no more.
To have existed 37,000 years ago in the Late Pleistocene sub-Saharan Africa. Full of fury and hunger. To have glimpsed a parcel of the cosmos, to have breathed the cold air before dawn. To shut the eyes one last time and return to the silent earth as white rock.
I leave you with Voltaire:
“You see how it is our fate to die almost as soon as we are born; our existence is a point, our duration an instant, our globe an atom. Scarcely have we begun to acquire a little information when death arrives before we can put it to use. I myself do not venture to lay any schemes; I feel like a drop of water in a boundless ocean. I am ashamed, especially before you, of the absurd figure I make in this universe” – (Voltaire in Micromegas)
‘Mankind is perverted and has no judgment
Of all men alive, who knows anything
They do not know whether they do good or evil’
Excerpt from an ancient Babylonian Psalm.
If there were knowledge there’d be no action. Only pure surrender. I know we cherish the denial of our times, like young nihilists. I dug for truth, through turd and stink. Seeking the gold of meaning, the diamond of certainty. Years have not been wasted – we see our excavations. Emptiness. Holes. Awakening. There is nothing. We’ve dug holes, nothing more; philosophical pits. The cradles of our deaths. They are beautiful, waiting, obvious. The discovery of nothing: the day everything changed. What do you seek? What value? What supreme encounter? Now, it’s too late. Death is not speculation but the premise. All postulates inevitably incomplete. I fear that conclusion. But it is here. Like a spark, like lightning. Like love and ephemeral: Nothingness.