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Samsara

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.
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