Very quiet. The house is very quiet and a little cold. The music makes it feel surreal.
I am struck by the absurdity of life. Still - this is not entirely unpleaseant.
Kafka reading Either/Or before he died.
How bitter we can become when greeted with impossibility, or even its pale and intangible shadow. How willing to embrace hopelessness to rid ourselves of the perils of responsibility!
And still, can we ignore the beautiful in the name of realism? I think that is far more dangerous than harboring empty but seductive ideals.
Rights and belief mingle into beaurocracy, which eliminates them both in a chokehold that slowly drains away the passion which gave them form. The tragedy of our time - ideas without implementation, ideas without fruition, ideas without realization. The helplessness of having no exit.
Art- art imitates life (should life imitate art?) - is art and aestheticism the only comfortable escape? We ignore history and coax it into a convenience for the present. Action should have 'historical precedent', but what use is this if the precedant is fabricated from the illusory desire of some political mind?
The emphasis we put upon winning, upon excelling, upon measuring ourselves against an ultimately foundationless standard which merely succeeds in flattering ourselves into inequity and a paralytic satisfaction. Should we recognise that there is nothing to measure ourselves against we could expel needless anxiety and inadequacy, and gather enough courage to face the terrifying freedom of the human experience.
I am struck by the absurdity of life. Still - this is not entirely unpleaseant.
Kafka reading Either/Or before he died.
How bitter we can become when greeted with impossibility, or even its pale and intangible shadow. How willing to embrace hopelessness to rid ourselves of the perils of responsibility!
And still, can we ignore the beautiful in the name of realism? I think that is far more dangerous than harboring empty but seductive ideals.
Rights and belief mingle into beaurocracy, which eliminates them both in a chokehold that slowly drains away the passion which gave them form. The tragedy of our time - ideas without implementation, ideas without fruition, ideas without realization. The helplessness of having no exit.
Art- art imitates life (should life imitate art?) - is art and aestheticism the only comfortable escape? We ignore history and coax it into a convenience for the present. Action should have 'historical precedent', but what use is this if the precedant is fabricated from the illusory desire of some political mind?
The emphasis we put upon winning, upon excelling, upon measuring ourselves against an ultimately foundationless standard which merely succeeds in flattering ourselves into inequity and a paralytic satisfaction. Should we recognise that there is nothing to measure ourselves against we could expel needless anxiety and inadequacy, and gather enough courage to face the terrifying freedom of the human experience.
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