The more I learn, the more I study, the more I come to understand, the more it seems that everything is, at its core, completely random—and perhaps necessarily so. In that randomness lies a kind of essential meaninglessness, or rather, a meaning that emerges only as the inverse echo of its own absence, enigmatic and unresolved.
The more I learn, the more I understand that knowing, holding is not material. That experience exists before our descriptions of it, and that reality precedes (and contains) our descriptions in ways language can never completely capture.
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Related: https://daedeluskite.com/2021/11/05/emptiness-in-psychology-subjectivity-and-art/
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it’s not random. Because that would imply truth is solvent.
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