Rained & drained

The rain has come and the sudden snow in that land lying far, deep in my heart. A little chill is most welcomed, like a memory long past, the splattering of heavenly droplets fell softly onto me…The one thing about existence is more than mere mysticism, at least that was what I was once in the known. Then the existentialists will challenge how certain one can be of one’s reality to the extent that the process of thinking is a thinking process in itself and in itself a question to be answered. I have not much memory on that, how Berkeley would argue for God’s existence or non-existence though it was once a tedious process I have gone through some long  hot summer nights. Cooped in a tiny rented room, I was rampaging through the printed copies of essays written by Berkeley and his supporters and also his critics. And what Descartes had to say about his own existence to derive at the maxim of “I think therefore I am” is slowly fading into a last twirl of smoke that lingers in the air as much as the smoke that came out of the almost frozen lips. No one can suggest how real someone or something may be for if what were so true to one one day can just disappear into thin air, how else can its existence be proven. Or is there really a need to ascertain the existence of anything at all? Felt like a mere existence of some kind, trapped in the different phase in life. Imagine walking down a dark, long tunnel or just being blindfolded such that the tunnel seems dark and never-ending. Every footstep may signify a form of progress or at least some changes, only that when the blindfold is forsaken, one would have to come to terms with his original form, or worse? or better? His realization that the walking was but walking on a treadmill and he is still very much stepping on square one…Alas! An analogy though not half as wise as Plato’s Analogy of the Cave and Shadow is still the language that I once spoke. Have I metamorphosed or transformed or advanced into a kind that is both strange and at present not quite acceptable even to its original form? All seem surreal, a knot in the time that holds the past on one end and the present or the possible future in the other end. And the mere existence of my existence is lost in the transition or disrupted by some transgressor, I think. But can I trust what I am thinking? Am I capable of thinking that the thinking is for real? Is there an “I” to begin with…I think therefore I am…


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