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Philosophy

Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness

Somewhere in the deep dark pit of indeterminate catastrophe that we call our shared Global history, we find ourselves endlessly seeking reasons, causes and inviolable proofs to explain just why our world is the way it is. Our linear, narrative minds are so entrained and reflexively conditioned by these visceral, intimate experiences of time and space (or place) that we are almost entirely inhibited from being able to perceive the actual non-linear, non-binary gestalt from which all of this experience and memory is actually constructed.

The truth that we don’t dare admit is the most obvious, and the least palatable: the world creates itself and really has no awareness or meaningful purpose beyond it’s own recursively exponentiated and autonomously self-propagating continuity. We can of course assert and define meaning as a plausibly necessary component and bootstrapped self-expression of all (this) human being but we should not asssume that semantic depth stretches much further than the little bone boxes and brains we all inhabit. If meaning is in some sense “out there”, it constitutes that same epistemological vacuum and metaphysical blindspot that self-inflected introspection already informs us lies within ourselves, as ourselves. The only certainty is uncertainty and this is a vacuum that imprisons us just as much as it might emancipate. That is the core mystery and unknowable truth of our existence – that we can know that we can not know and when we aspire to thread this paradox back through the eye of it’s own needle we might catch a glimpse of our own emptiness, and our own infinity.

There is no purpose, only unknowing recursive self-replication of a process of logical self-replication. That is quite sad, from one perspective but is simultaneously a pointer to freedom.

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