Indra's Absurd Net

Like morning dewdrops on a spider's web, within each sentient being is the reflection of all the others. Rising and falling in an everchanging cascade of illusion. This mysterious dance of amorous multiplicity knows no bounds. Many a philosopher has attempted to describe the ground that lay behind these appearances. Much of their work has been ruled obsolete by newer and more scientific observations. What exactly is it? Perhaps a more poignant question would be: how does it relate to me, the conscious self? Countless explanations, none of them satisfactory. When one sets out on the quest for enlightenment, numerous roadblocks will be found along the way. The problem of suffering being one of the most prominent. Even once I began to comprehend the interconnected nature of the universe at large, there remained this deep-seated anxiety that something was severely wrong. Finitude, but not as mere theoretical abstraction... finitude that hurts. Physically, emotionally and existentially. How could this be? I often asked myself that question. There was magnificence that surrounded me at every turn. The gorgeous sunsets and the starlit skies. Enough beauty to take any breath away. Yet something was off. I became highly aware of the fact that all of it would not only fade to black one day, but inevitable pain and potential cruelty will precede this final moment.

After many years contemplating the metaphysical unity of life, and conversely the endless strife caused by evolutionary competition... I came to a conclusion. A reconciliation of sorts. Between what is and what I thought ought to be. Instead of trying everything in my power to avoid the struggles of daily life, I chose to embrace each step in the process. However, that embrace only came through a qualified optimism. I do not affirm the value of life unquestionably. I think there are many complaints and grievances that are perfectly apt, given the particular circumstances for certain people. That being said though, the glory of any masterpiece is not to be found in pragmatic perfectionism. For if that were true, everything even remotely human would be thereby nullified. We are asymmetrical beings after all. I think the beauty of existence is to be discovered through its flaws. What would the good be without contrast? When you blend this collective patchwork of pimples and wrinkles together, what you find is a face. A face of raw artistic expression. Through the perpetual pursuit of excellence, we ironically reveal our mediocrity. The real irony being that this mediocrity is itself excellence. So that's how I justify getting out of bed everyday into this strange paradoxical matrix of pleasure and pain. I see it as art. Good or bad, it's all a matter of interpretation. Only difference is now I choose to admire it. Beats wallowing in despair all day.