Samsara, Maya, the illusion, what is not real.
There is a non-transcendentalist interpretation of the concept which does not
appeal to a substantial reality, or truth, or whatever final and definite
referent for things (i.e. an exomorphism), for the universe, and for us. Samsara is the trivial
pursuit and pain of most human lives. Bound to nothing, to empty air, to
obsolete myths, withered patterns of emotional protocols that maintain life at
the high price of repetitive nothingness and misery. It is not only the trait
of modern life, old inertias of transcendental thought carry the same burden, a
hunt for phantoms, a feast of crazy magpies stealing the shining shit and
thinking it a golden treasure. Heavy human sleepwalking, chained to our physiology
and proud of it.
Once you see the patterns of the eternal return
of the movements of life, the endless repetition, the perennial dreams of choice,
then the game is over, and you find yourself out, as good as dead, dead for the
others. How to live then? For what purpose? Out of compassion for the sleepers?
There is not a general valid answer for these questions. You have to find out
for yourself, i.e. die many times, and resurrect. How hard are the ways of Zoe, Life-Intelligence, how precarious our shelters: broken hearts are the only secure way to yonder
shores. For a broken heart is silence, and at every instant from silence spontaneously springs a pristine renewed Life-Intelligence, without purpose, or its equivalent, with infinite purposes.
