Life, a caustic miasma seemingly pellucid in it’s being eludes our common grasp (most of us who think we know what it is, anyway). We stay in the Cimmerian sleep, swallowing endless chapters of philosophy, religion, and science to appear enlightened and to curtail the void of not knowing what it means to be alive or to be dead. Consuming the words of Darwin, Socrates, or even the Bible for that matter, will not fill the gaping hole in depths of our crowded wits. And inevitably, failure to satisfy one’s curiosity for truth or reality surfaces. Not from lack of appreciation mind you, but from the fear of our fragility, mortality to be exact, and the strangled illusions of the meaning of our existence. On the surface, the illusion of existence that we all know, is to be alive, to be real and not imaginary. And life appears to be a mere compilation of events, all seeming to have good or bad implications.
2009 ~ Helena Malheur