Random Contemplations

What does it mean to be one? One, means to be undivided, to not have something before and after you, to be united in its completeness. It's one and therefore complete, because it cannot be divided into smaller. Something that is one can only be perceived from different angles, but that does not imply that those angles have separate and therefore divided ways of existence. 
What is suffering? Is suffering not getting what you want? Is it constantly having an absence of pleasure or the lack of misery. Something in that direction, yes. 
Can you use extreme suffering to cease your division. Is suffering the way to become one with whatever it is in this world in a metaphysical sense, that seems to be the underlying principles as to why things exist? 
Maybe yes. At least, from my attempt to understand the way of becoming free through a form of self-destructing manner. 
It appears that there is in the first place a form of indifference from the universe towards us. The world independent from us bases itself on the principles of either efficiency (evolutionary theory of reproduction) or indifference (lack of absolute morality/meaning etc.)
Standing in an open field, screaming at the sky for causing the difficulties you face in life, is an absurd scenario, yet interesting to investigate further. 
What is it that moves us to become angry at the world in the first place? A self-proclaimed sense of justice, that has not been met by the world? Famine, war and lack of equality, where there should be? And then anger towards the world and the universe for the injustice it lets happening?
I find that thought quite fascinating and amusing. It seems to be the root of morality, the seed of faith. To see injustice, where there should be none. To see the gateways open towards hypocrisy, misery and greed, when there should be none of that. There is a call for something. Something eternally true and one. 
It has to be there, yet if it’s not, maybe it’s us who’s not obeying its principles. Maybe there is something good out there, a higher form of justice, that we’re not noble enough to participate in. 
What seems to be the logical implication? That we are rotten creatures, who are soiling our paths towards nirvana? 
‘’Let us become free from these earthly chains by suffering. By becoming comfortably numb in our suffering, to be completely free from suffering. Only then, will we have transcended our earthly desires. Only then will we too be undivided and one.’’
I cannot recall which thinker it was, but I have to think of a saying he once quoted, that seems to reflect the human condition in these types of thoughts. 
‘’We naturally move away from chaos, towards that which is rational and in balance. Therefore, we have instinctive love for that which is rational and in balance.’’ Not meaning that humans have the same definition of rationality and balance, but that everyone shares the common instinct of wanting to be organized in a certain. To have himself and his life composed according to the symphony he wants to play to the world. 
I wonder what the drive is of wanting to be at peace with yourself and the universe. It at least carries the assumption that there is a possibility to connect mutually to the universe, meaning it has some form of existence or intellect that is adequate to that of a human. But besides that, even if the universe doesn’t respond or is indifferent to our existence, does that mean it’s impossible to connect to it?
I’ve experienced people who have failed to connect. It results in nihilism. A type of escapism. It’s screaming at the universe the first time to connect to it and when it fails, a second time to show your anger. If the universe is indifferent, then those who live their lives locked away at home in anger against the universe, are hilarious. What was there to expect? Do they not see that it doesn’t matter whether you get angry at it or not, it will continue ignoring you?
The second alternative is those who try to connect and think they’ve managed to do so. Are they running away from life? Do they dedicate themselves to a silent force, with the illusion of a connection being there? Is not like watching your own reflection in the see and then falling in love with who’s looking back? Adding something to the universe that’s not there, while it remains cold and indifferent? That too seems to be a type of escapism. 
And then there’s accepting that perhaps talking to the sky will give you cold silence back. Does that cease are drive towards wanting to be want? Liberating ourselves and being at an undivided peace?
Perhaps there’s an alternative that can be found. An alternative in which you reverse the roles. In which nor complete atheism, nor complete deism are the correct answer. In which you stop having a dialogue from your perspective and instead let the universe become a talking mirror. Staring into it, letting it give you the impressions it does, showing its perfect indifference when you are staring into the sunset, looking at the rotations the world makes, and experiencing how indifferent it is to your bad mood. Looking at the flowers and animals who seem to be endlessly reproducing, independently from what you think of it. 
Instead perhaps, that might cause a spark in which we should stop talking to the universe or about the universe and instead accept its stoic behavior. Its indifference is an open playing field in which we can create. Nothing has to be, many things can be. And then ask ourselves from the standpoint of the universe, what is it then that we are actually doing? And what does it mean to us? Instead of, what does it mean to the universe and therefore, ourselves? It keeps existing, it keeps carrying on and rotating. In its perfect nature, it keeps being. It's one, undivided in its existence and its indifference.
In the silence of mere impressions, perhaps eternity can be found.

The Drunken Folly

I am drunk. 
I contemplate your existence, until I can't think about it no more. 
Ah, beloved! Is it you making me drunk or is it the wine? 
Is me wanting you me being in an extase of wine or love, my dear?
Or perhaps I am in extase of love drinking my sorrow away, drowning! 
Ah, my love. Your sweet cherry mouth (I could kiss it a hundred times and a hundred times more and another hundred times).
Your sweet cherry mouth, so far away. I bite my lips to replace the innocent pleasures you give me when we are alone under the stars, God watching us, God judging us.  
Your soft silver skin against mine. 
How lonely and miserable I am! How drunk I am! 
What can I do but to take another sip to ease the pain? 
What can I do but the mimick your touch with my own clumsy hands? 
Ah, my dear, my life, my love.
No music can replace your heartwarming laughter.
Drunk and foul I fall before your porcelain feet:
"If you are the cause of my drunken state, my dear, then let me roam the streets drunk of love forever!"

The Arrogant Loner Philosopher

If there is something that causes me unease, yet comfort at the same time it is the continuously reoccurring drive towards solitude. This feeling isn't new to me.  I became aware of this phenomenon years ago, but the fact that I paradoxically feel at ease in this loneliness is new to me. And that feeling exactly is what I want to examine more closely.
A few days ago I came home late as usual. My head felt heavy. It was pleasant, I spend the night with a loved one. Still in ecstasy I sat down in the bus after I had said goodbye. When I'm tired I usually lose the ability to clearly formulate thoughts, so thoughts just plump upon me in a stream of consciousness. I was shocked at the first thought that occurred to me the moment I had left:
´´Finally. Solitude.´´
The empty feeling afterwards felt quite warm and inviting. Its embrace felt much needed also.
It got me thinking, philosophizing, I mean. There is a void, that I see as a place of comfort. A void people normally tend to avoid. Why is this void suddenly so attractive, when it ought to be avoided?
Depressed people often say that the void sucks them of energy, that they can;t take the emptiness of the néant. I, however, experienced it differently. That doesn't mean I don't share their sentiments or at least don't understand them.
Yet, what I want to present is another side to this feeling that people tend to refer to as 'loneliness', 'emptiness' or 'nothingness'. The ambiguous side of loneliness. The feeling that this state of melancholy is a warm blanket that protects me against any impression the world tries to make on me. Escapism in nihilism. Comfort in nihilism.
In this feeling of warmth and comfort I sense that I am careless and lazy. Solitude can be best described as an empty cabin in a far away country that feels inviting after having seen, heard and felt too much. You retreat from the chaos into silence.
Certainly, the silence surrounding you can drive you insane, but it can also serve as a means to process thoughts that have been impressed in your soul.
This being the first factor that drives me to solitude. My soul is impressed by too much.
Another factor that drives me back to solitude and with that back to writing (since I haven't written in months) is me feeling restricted. All these impressions I feel, new ones and old ones, are a lot to process. They pile up and need time and energy to be thoroughly examined.
This in itself is mind numbing, but it becomes even harder when you have no clear morality to measure these impression up against, so you can't judge the position they take inside your life. You're stuck and don't know what to do with them. Yet, time passes. Days go by. The world waits for no one.
So whether I make my choice or not, there is no eternal tomorrow waiting for me to take my time.
So in the stress of time there seem two options available. Either you make up your mind and just choose already. You can either do this by investing time into the choice you're going to make and hope you will be able to triumphantly rise in the end. Or you can just choose and see whatever comes out, while being indifferent to the results and thinking that choices are a form of game you play in life to pass time.
Another option is to look at the other side of the coin and again accept that the world will not wait for you and do nothing about it.
In other words, to solitude yourself, because in the end nothing of the choices you make will matter in the long term, because in the end nothing shall last.
Or as Persian existential poet Omar Khayyam gracefully said:

''There was a water drop, it joined the sea. A speck of dust, it was fused with earth; what of your entering and leaving this world? A fly appeared and disappeared.''

I can understand that option two and three can be condemned if you are a humanist or have a positive attitude towards life. There's nothing virtuous in neglecting the will to live and life itself. Yes, simply seeing life as a game is also a way of neglect. After all, it's you being your own enemy and destroying yourself in the process, one can reason. Not a rebellion against the world, since the world doesn't care. It's you rebelling against that part that you detest in the world. That's how Camus would reason.
Yet, then I think of Kierkegaard. It doesn't matter what we choose, because in the end we will regret it anyway.
Live, don't live, you'll regret it anyway. Love, don't love, you'll regret it anyway. Study, don't study, you'll regret it anyway. Job, no job. Regret. Friendship, solitude. Regret. Fuck him, don't fuck him. Regret.
Yes, Kierkegaard meant this in another way than I am presenting right now. To him knowing we're mortal, meant living to the fullest. 
Morior, ergo sum. (I die, therefore I am.)
This is the only life you will get, this is the only chance for you to make mistakes. Love them. Since you won't be able to ever be mistaken again in the same exact way, in the same exact situation, with the exact same you.
Beautiful. What a beautiful way to turn something so fragile as life, something so uncertain as the freedom to choose into a manifestation of the self. As a way to take life with your bare hands and embrace it for the potential shithole it was, is and might become.
The problem however is, I am not Camus' Sysiphus. I am not Nietzsche's Übermensch.
I. Am. Sara.
Following whatever a philosopher said, simply for the sake of him saying it, doesn't fill my soul. I need more reason.
With this being said, I want to say that I do not wish to be an imitation of a philosopher. I wish to be a philosopher. How do I see it? Of course, inspired by other philosopher, but what is it I want? Nietzsche's position in what it means to be a philosopher is quite right in this sense. He said this.

Quote: ''The actual interest of the scholar, therefore, are generally in another direction - in the family, perhaps, in money-making, or in politics; it is, in fact, almost indifferent at what point of research his little machine is placed, and whether the hopeful young worker becomes a good philologist, a mushroom specialist, or a chemist; he is not characterized by becoming this or that. In the philosopher, on the contrary, there is absolutely nothing impersonal; and above all, hid morality furnishes a decided and a decisive testimony as to who he is, - that is to say, in what order the deepest impulses of his nature stand to each other.''
-Beyond Good and Evil, page 5

Being a philosopher means to be egocentric. It's also the only job that fully reflects the soul of the individual. In that sense, to philosophy is to exist. 
Philosopha sum ergo cogito. I am a philosopher, therefore I think.

To come back to the main topic: the drive towards solitude. The third factor being pride.
Pride is a difficult state of mind, character trait, whatever you want to call it. Pride can be good. It protects you from mental harm. It can cause you transcend yourself, because you are confident enough that there is more in store for you.
Even the act of me writing this is a form of pride, I have something to say that's worth listening to. I can even say I am proud of my ability to formulate these thoughts.
However, would it be better to have no pride at all? Is there something negative to it that outweighs the positive? No pride can lead to nihilism. You have nothing worth maintaining nor anything to lose.
It also seems to me that having pride and arrogance is something that belongs to a philosopher. Do humble philosophers exist or is that a contradictio in terminis? If they exist, perhaps it's a philosopher ignorant of his or her own arrogance.
I, as a matter of fact, know that it is necessary for a philosopher to be certain over a few things. To such an extend that he or she wants to present it to the world as some new discovery the world didn't see, but the philosopher in question did. He or she knows better.
Doesn't that imply arrogance? Am I arrogant writing this? At least to the point that I feel that these words are worth writing down and remembering?
This, however, isn't the only way pride presents itself to me. It also coincides with restriction of the self.
Those two fall under the same main drive that bring me back to wanting solitude: Freedom.
It's amusing how such an empty word still has the power to drive us towards it. What I mean by that is that freedom as an abstract term doesn't carry any meaning outside our frame of reality. I can't point at it; even worse, every individual has an own interpretation of freedom.
Is my red your red? And is my freedom your freedom? The second question can immediately follow the first.
Solitude is also a form of freedom. Not freedom to of course, but freedom from. From humiliation, from labor, responsibilities, embarrassment, pain, studies, loss.
Let us all be free from! So I wish I could exclaim and make life easy. Yet, aside from being an empty word, it is also an ambiguous term.
Freedom from love, pleasure, laughter, warmth, friendship, improvement, encounters, evolution, transcendence. In this battle of overcoming yourself you will see that those words that seem to be polar opposites actually have the option to causally follow each other in a beautiful flux called life.
So in conclusion, what has writing this brought me? Am I closer to anything at all? Or did I just run in a circle?
I can fairly conclude it led to something. Something small, but significant in my eyes.
I have no answers on how to live life. I merely know the questions. At least I know what the inner battle is. That's what this stream of consciousness has brought me.
Thus again I am confronted by wanting two things at once, but wanting neither over all. Thus once again there is the phenomenon I can never seem to outrun,
Ambiguity. 

Random Thought #5

There is unease surrounding us. Unease in the form of chaos. That distinction is made with reason. When we say that we feel at unease we mean that we can still function properly, yet lack the taste to dress up properly, to eat healthy, to go to work or class. Basically to do anything that adds up to our desire to present ourselves in such a way that we consider satisfactory. It is difficult to explain just giving general ideas of what I mean, so here is an allegory. A storm is going on. It takes place in a hollow room inside our chest. The storm is one of emotions. The emotions switch from one specter to the next, but they twist and twirl; causing uneasiness in the heart, because you never know what the storm will bring next. Even worse, what if it one day loses all it energy and stops spinning all together? Whatever the case, it is difficult to enter from the outside in. We can only experience the effects, but the causes remain a mystery.

This storm also has affected us to write and sit here thinking over and over how we should type these words with the correct and confident formulation that we're slowly losing. 

It is, funny enough, in exactly this inner battle that I have found a reason to finally write something down. Ambiguity is something that always fascinated me to be honest. It forms the bridge from extremes to a golden middle of grey and nuance. This transcends the black and white thinking and reminds me again why we are so brilliant. It shows that we actually are capable of deep thought to a very far away extend. One which gives the sudden realization that there is something beyond good and evil. This awkward piece of writing has a reason. As a means to turn this inner battle into a manifestation that can be turned outwards and thus also be presented to the outer world with the aim to reflect on it. 

Why is it that I am doubting myself so much?

It is difficult to type away, to fill pages and be meaningful. Aren't essays always supposed to be long? Because it seems that complexity, depth and validity have become synonyms in the philosophical atmosphere. Not that I can blame them of course, since I myself have admitted in a few pages earlier that it is more than necessary for me to convey my thoughts to the outer world and still preserve the intention and the depth that the words carry with them. Thus it is necessary to be clear. Clearness can only be understood in terms of either an Aha-Erlebnis (insight) or a pages of paper that exhibit the long syllogisms the writer went through in an internal battle with the self to finally come to that self-evident insight. 

And perhaps it is in exactly that in which I am experiencing the inner struggle. That I want both and neither. By both and neither, I mean that I appreciate either aspects, but neither in overall. 

I despise the shallowness of short philosophies. One-Liner Philosophies as I like to call them. You can often find them on social media with the picture of a punk-philosopher like Nietzsche or Sartre put by some rebel teenager to express his or her individuality. It consists out of one line that joyfully kicks against the system, such as ''God is dead'' or ''The hell is the Other''. 

I must admit, it does annoy me, even though I try to ignore it. 

Tbe One-Liner Philosophies used by many, not only now, but by anyone with a superiority complex, as a means to overshadow their insecurities, can be quite helpful though.

If used properly, it can be used to emphasis a certain thought that is the main point of your stream of consciousness. If that's not the case, it can also be used to summarize in a few words the whole point of your story. This gives the reader clarification and the writer a reference point when he or she has to defend or explain his or her thesis. 

Another form of writing is the overly long complex writing that serves no other purpose than to convey something easy as difficult as possible to create depth where there is little. 

Depth in thought is indeed very difficult to achieve. It is quite frustrating, I know from experience and sometimes even heartbreaking, when you have the feeling that words no longer have the power to carry your emotions and thoughts to the other with all the associations you have when using those words. 

This becomes even more complex when it's written text and all the emotions have to come from cold blocky letters printed against a white background. 

So what you then do to convey your words is to repeat yourself. If that doesn't help, you resort to going way too deep into the topic, to the point where you've completely digressed from the original topic. This too is quite understandable, but a pain to read. Mind numbing even. 

However, it is necessary to be nuanced. It is true that often people resort to this type of writing, because they have to convey long thoughts concerning topics that do need all the pages filled in order for the reader to understand it. That's however not what I'm talking about. Those books who do that don't outdo themselves. Those pages are necessary, because if you took pieces out of it, it would stop making sense or lose it's literary touch that differentiates the writers from other writers. The latter is of course a subjective insight that I can't go into depth to right now, because I want to keep the focus on the battle I'm experiencing. 

For the sake of practicality, let's say that when you can leave it out, it's unnecessary to write it down.

So between these two extremes, where should I place myself?

Does my problem even posit itself in this question or should I be asking myself a whole other question all together?

The words that I can associate with my restlessness are the following:

Unease, impatience and depth.

And immediately we can behold the problem. The eternal problem of contradiction that will probably follow me into the grave. Wanting two things that seem to essentially exclude each other. 

Depth and impatience that is, which consequently concludes to uneasiness. 

Painting 1: ''Lust''

''Lust''

Midnight Conversations at the Age of 19-I

Me: What are you doing? 00:46
You: Nothing. 00:46
Me: Nothing at all? 00:46
You: No. 00:46
Me: I wanna paint. 00:47
You: Oh. 00:47
Me: And leave school. 00:47
Me: And be talented as an artist, any type. 00:47
Me: And have a gallery. 00:47
Me: And sell them for thousands. 00:47
You: We all have dreams. 00:47
Me: And spend my nights in a small expensive appartment with a white cat. 00:48
Me: And only read philosophical books. 00:48
Me: And just drink tea. 00:48
Me: And only eat lunch at small cute cafes. 00:48
Me: And buy more sweaters, skirts, heels and lipstick. 00:48
Me: That's what I want. 00:48
You: Go get it then. 00:49
Me: I'll try. 00:49
Me: What do you want from life? 00:49  
You: I want a lot of things. 00:50  
You: I want to learn how to play the cello. 00:50  
You: I want to listen to more music. 00:51
You: I want to read some books. 00:51  
You: I  want to watch some great movies I didn't get to watch yet. 00:51
You: I want to go to the gym. 00:51  
You: I want to learn how to drive. 00:51  
You: I want to meet people. 00:51  
You: I want to have a special somebody. 00:51
You: I want to continue my studies and do good research. 00:52
You: I want to get an apartment for myself. 00:52
You: I want to travel the world. 00:52
You: I want to hike mountains. 00:52
You: I want to go to a polar region and see auroras. 00:53
You: I want to be alive. 00:53
Me: They're reachable. 00:55
You: Easily reachable if things were running smoothly. 00:55
Me: Yes. 1:00
Me: I know. 1:00
You: I'm off to sleep. 1:03
Me: Okay. 1:03
Me: Good night. 1:03
You: Good night. 1:03

The State III: The Process

The State III

The Process:

It is difficult to put phenomenons, that being social behavior,  into words. It is hard to be a confident writer and still produce essays or books that are completely true. I can see this in myself. I have read books and admired them, books that show no coherency to each other whatsoever, but somehow still manage to convince me that there is some truth in what the author is saying. It was in this small confrontation with myself, that I could sense the ambiguity.

How odd it was reading two completely different philosophers, who were opposites and still find yourself nodding in agreement, once you read their arguments and stream of thoughts.

With every book I read, I did not feel at all that I was being presented wisdom, rather I felt that I was being confronted with my own ignorance. With every book, conversation or lecture I became more aware of how shallow my thinking process in actuality is. The world is much bigger; the people inside it have much more going on inside their head than they show.

It struck me with every conversation and it still shows how incompetent I am when it comes to discussions, because there is always a part of me that can see the reasoning behind one's thoughts.

No matter what I say, due to the complexity of the world and its people, we are de facto wrong when it comes to choosing the way we want to life; it is difficult to evaluate which values are superior to others. Ideals in itself are brilliant and we will happily nod in agreement when one exclaims: ‘’Liberté, egalité et fraternité.’’ Yet, the methods to get there often make us blind to remember what even the ideals were we so proudly stood for.

What is the reason for the failure we go through as human species? Is it perhaps that what we see as noble, actually is a handicap of some kind?

Life is failure, without ever having had the opportunity to even see the finish line, we will never be victorious. It is always an inner struggle between wanting two things that contradict themselves, but on their own are flawless.

Individualism, socialism, chauvinism, humanism, nihilism, freedom of speech, mutual respect, values, freedom, morality, rebellion, diversity, unity, nobility, patience.

It is a harsh way to see life. One could say that, but I would object. However, there is still some small candle light at the end of the tunnel.

Even when I was confronted with my own ignorance, I had discovered that in some way there are certain truths that we all share, that instinctively feels right and just.

The idea that one becomes aware from the push and pull movements of life, is only possible when one takes a break from life itself and tries to transcendent whatever world he is living in. Seeing everything not from a biased view, but seeing the world as followed:

The realization that we are part of a big flux that connects one another, in which our existence bases itself upon the choices of the generation beyond us and that our choices form the base for the generation after us. With other words, there is a bigger picture than just that which fulfills our individual needs, but ambiguously we still need to take those individual needs into consideration.

That is such a hard task in itself and is sometimes too demanding.

Not too demanding at all if you ask me. The reason for this, is that coming to this realization takes the most essential part of human nature in question. The ability to think, to be an individual between the herd, yet be one with the herd based on your individualism.

It is true that social behavior and political movements base themselves on the idea that certain ideals are more true, because they fulfill the goal they want to achieve, but that does not mean that the ideas of the rival don’t have the same source.

They still do, there is always some truth in the other, even if it not presented in the desired way. The only way to see that we are all going after the same idea in life, is eliminating the passive thoughtless behavior that many have, that has its root in the inability or refusal to think, therefore denying one’s own individualism.

And why do they do so? The reason being that it is easier to let someone else carry you to the goal and blame it on him if the possibility is open to failure, instead of owning up to one’s own mistakes.

There is no blame in mistakes, but only in being too coward to make them and owning up to your responsibility. 

Epistemologie Paper: Objectie tegen de Cartesiaanse Demon

Epistemologie Paper 

Stelling:  ''Het is niet noodzakelijk om een onderscheid te maken tussen de noumenale en de fenomenale wereld.'' 

·         Objectie:  

Het onderscheid tussen de fenomenale en noumenale wereld is met een goede reden gemaakt. In de antieke traditie was het verschil noodzakelijk om de kennisvoorwaardes te formuleren voor ons kenvermogen. De reikwijdte van ons kennen werd gelimiteerd tot de zogeheten ''fenomenale'' wereld. Dit was de wereld zoals die zich aan ons presenteerde, wanneer men gebruik maakte van diens zintuigen. De noumenale wereld is datgene wat in de Platoonse traditie als de ware werkelijkheid gepostuleerd werd. Dit was de werkelijkheid die onafhankelijk van de zintuigen bestond. De vraag die nu noodzakelijk gevraagd moet worden is deze: 

''Hoe kan men zeker zijn dat dit onderscheid ook redelijkerwijs gemaakt mag worden?'' 

Het onderscheid werd in de antieke traditie door Plato gemaakt. Het feit dat men in het particuliere het vermogen had om het abstractere en daarbij het volmaaktere te kennen, gaf genoeg steun om aan te nemen dat het bestaan van het abstracte ook bestaansrecht had die men kon kennen, omdat hij reeds gekend was. In de anamnesis (herinnering) kreeg het subject een Aha-Erlebnis, omdat er overeenstemming kwam tussen dat wat op particuliere wijze werd waargenomen en een bepaalde eidos (Idee of Vorm) dat in het subject besloten zat. Het was dus epistemisch noodzakelijk om te spreken van twee werkelijkheden om een weg te kunnen vormen naar het ware kennen.  

Het dubium over de zintuigen is dus geplaats. De ware werkelijkheid is tot op een bepaalde hoogte via de zintuigen kenbaar, maar voor echte kennis behoort men in contemplatie te gaan naar de begrippen die het fenomenale kenbaar maken. De vraag is wederom, hoe kan je opgesloten in je eigen ik, met enkel de zintuigen tot je beschikking, überhaupt tot zekere kennis komen over de noumenale wereld? Plato zou antwoorden dat men behoort na te denken met datgene dat even los staat van de materie als de transcendente begrippen, namelijk de rede.  

Echter, er zit een probleem in Plato’s Ideeënleer, die van te veel axioma's uitgaat, die men niet kan rechtvaardigen. Bijvoorbeeld, hoe neemt het particuliere deel aan het abstracte? Als de Ideeën intern in ons kennen besloten liggen, dan is er niet meer sprake van externe inwerking en is daarbij de voorwaarde voor een externe, abstracte werkelijkheid geëlimineerd. Aristoteles heeft de problemen verder uitgewerkt en opgelost door het kenvermogen te beperken tot datgene wat Plato ''de vergankelijke werkelijkheid'' zou noemen.  

De zoektocht naar een objectie schrijdt voort richting René Descartes. Aristoteles heeft veel problemen van de metafysica en epistemologie opgelost door het kenvermogen te verschuiven naar de materiële wereld en het daartoe te beperken. Echter, deze verandering van metafysisch wereldbeeld komt met een prijs. De axioma, die per definitie de grootste twijfel teweeg brengt, is juist die aanname, die überhaupt Aristoteles' kenwereld mogelijk maakt: de verheerlijking van de zintuigen.  

Descartes gaat als rationalist tegen dit empirisme in. Hij contempleert en komt tot een radicale conclusie, die de epistemologie deed veranderen. Volgens hem was het initieel onmogelijk zeker te zijn over wat dan ook. De meditaties brachten twijfel en vragen teweeg. Kan het zo zijn dat we dromen? Of wellicht bedrogen worden door een demon, die ons de werkelijkheid als rechtvaardig, maar onwaar doet toeschijnen? De enige toegang tot de werkelijkheid, die we hebben zijn de zintuigen. Er is immers niks wat ons in staat stelt om zeker te zijn dat ook die zintuigen niet ons bedriegen. Het is daarom meer dan noodzakelijk dat er een onderscheid wordt gemaakt tussen de noumenale en fenomenale wereld om te kunnen twijfelen. Doen we dat niet, dan laten we de optie open dat we wellicht wel tot kennis kunnen komen die te rechtvaardigen is, maar die buiten ons kenvermogen, volledig mis is. 

·          Antwoord:

De filosoof die ik moet aanhalen bij de synthese tussen het enerzijds rationele probleem van ons kenvermogen, gepostuleerd door Descartes en anderzijds de empiristische, zoals Aristoteles, is Immanuel Kant. De versmelting manifesteert zich in het idee dat twee zaken noodzakelijk zijn om van kennis te kunnen spreken, namelijk het verstand en de waarneming. Beide zijn even noodzakelijk om kennis überhaupt mogelijk te kunnen maken. In het verstand zit structuren, die voorwaardea vormen om de a posteriori kennis mogelijk te maken. Ruimte en tijd zijn bijvoorbeeld nodig voor iets om kenbaar te zijn aan het verstand. Kant refereert naar dergelijke voorwaardes voor kennis als de categorieën. De categorieën kenmerken zich verder hierin dat ze eigenschappen zijn van het verstand en niet van de noumenale wereld. De categorieën vormen de reikwijdte van ons kenvermogen; ze maken het mogelijk, dat we premièrement in staat zijn van kennis te spreken. Echter, juiste deze zelfde categorieën vormen op ambigue wijze tegelijkertijd de grens van ons kenvermogen. Alles wat buiten de categorieën valt kan niet gekend worden door het verstand. Op deze wijze is het verstand begrensd en beperkt tot de fenomenale aanblikken van de werkelijkheid. 

Enfin, het is cruciaal om in te zien dat kennis enkel bestaat in overeenstemming, niet als een ontologische waarheidsbegrip.

Of zoals hijzelf mooi formuleert in Kritik der reinen Vernunft:

Begriffe ohne Anschauung sind leer, Anschauung ohne Begriffe ist blind

We hebben dus aangenomen van Kant dat kennis beperkt is tot de overeenstemming van de werkelijkheid met het verstand en dat op deze wijze alles wat buiten het verstand valt, wat hij het Ding an Sich noemt, noodzakelijkerwijs niet gekend kan worden.

Is het nu mogelijk om een objectie te geven aan het dubium van Descartes? Zeker.

Kant heeft zekerheid weten te geven aan de zintuigen, terwijl hij tegelijkertijd de twijfel van Descartes meebrengt op elegante wijze.

Zeker, we kunnen nooit het Ding an Sich kennen, de optie is open dat we bedrogen worden. Het kan dat buiten het kenvermogen van het verstand en de werkelijkheid, de noumenale wereld een leugen is.

Echter, wat Kant wel duidelijk maakt is dat we voor zover het kenvermogen ons toelaat, we een bepaalde mate van kennis kunnen vergaren, namelijk die binnen de categorieën van het verstand vallen.

Hierdoor borrelt bij mij dan de vraag op, waarom eigenlijk het onderscheid tussen twee werkelijkheden maken? Anders dan Plato, is de scheiding van de werkelijkheden niet eentje die metafysisch bestaansrecht hebben. Kant en Descartes postuleren de mogelijkheid van een noumenale wereld enkel als concept om de reikwijdte van het kennen te kunnen begrijpen, niet als transcendente volmaakte werkelijkheid.

En wanneer dus Kant de hypothese heeft gesteld van de fenomenale wereld en de noumenale wereld en hij heeft daarbij het kennen beperkt tot de fenomenale wereld, enkel ervan uitgaand dat de noumenale bestaat uit allerlei Dingen an Sich, dan is de noumenale wereld enkel ondersteund door de redenering die uitgaat van de noodzaak van een dergelijke wereld, omdat er anders niks is wat ons fenomenaal kan toeschijnen. Als dat de reden is dat het onderscheid gemaakt moet worden tussen een conceptuele noumenale wereld en een tastbare en bovenal epistemisch kenbare ‘fenomenale’ wereld, dan lijkt het me meer dan rationeel om het kennen te beperken juist tot die fenomenale wereld, omdat de notie van een noumenale wereld enkel tot onnodige redundantie leidt. Niet omdat het alleen praktisch is, maar omdat het categoriale kenvermogen dat van ons dwingt. 

On Rejection and Nihilism

There were, are and will be times in your life in which you will experience rejection. This in itself is a terrifying fact that we cannot escape, let alone know how the live with it and sharpen or norms to its bitter existence. 
And out of all states of mind, this one in particular bears a stingy feeling of discomfort with it. Just because of its so called destroying nature.
A sense of rejection is a state of mind that destroys hopes, aspirations and dreams. It is the grandfather of nihilism. The grieving mother that gave birth to a son it didn’t want. 
There's no denying every single one of humanity has faced rejection in some way or another. And how macabre it was to experience powerlessness. Trying but not achieving. That moving forward doesn’t guarantee that desired throne we wanted to sit upon while the a warm voice is saying: “You have done your best, my child. It was enough and more than worth it.”
And we, the gods of the new world, who reign over it behind our technological innovation, seem not to have accepted the power of defeat that so mercilessly has proven its existence over and over again to us through the centuries of failing. But that's no wonder, seeing our pride. 
And yet I ask you to remember, that one time in your life where you had shown the world your brilliance in the form of a talent you possess or by hard work. And how wonderful it felt to have finally talked yourself into being courageous. One final step forward and you would have reached your end. 

(I realise I am intentionally enlarging the situation, but only with the purpose that it will the more relatable. These general lines of experience are what every human goes through before the final blow)

And when the rejection finally does take place, it is not just the sense of judgment laid upon your act in itself that may stir your emotions, it is all that positive buildup from beforehand that suddenly collapses all together. And it falls and it crumbles, draining every bit of confidence and courage you had in mere seconds. And what you’re left with is angst, followed by an emotionless state of mind that’s too shocked to even comprehend what just had happened. 

This is rejection. So familiar and mind numbing it us.  This is the grandfather of nihilism. A crusher of ideals. The stone in our path that stops us from moving forward, not being able to look into the future. Yet it makes us regret looking back and hating ever having chosen this path. Imagine this for multiple times in your life. A path that stops halfway, yet being told that if you try hard enough one day you will reach your throne and you will comfortably reign over the worries of yourself and, if you’re idealistic enough, of humanity. This lie becomes the engine of your pursuit of happiness. What you’re left with is a huge nothingness. Nothing to move forward too, but to drained to even consider another way. So you sit there in the middle of the road. Stuck between two possible extremes. 

As a considerate reader you might have seen similarities to The Myth of Sysiphus by Camus, in which Sysiphus was doomed to eternally roll a rock up a mountain, just to see it tumbling down just as he reached the end. Let me elaborate on this. 
“Let us imagine Sysiphus happy”, Camus said. Let us imagine he is considering rolling up the rock as a life project in which he can still realise himself in some sort of form, by which he is not doomed to emptiness. That even in the most miserable situations it is possible to idealise oneself and to try realise that goal. 
Let me then pose the following contra-statement. Let us imagine, I say, that it is not a miserable place we live in, but that we are in paradise. That this society of empty consumption has realised itself into our paradise, in which we have no shortcomings. Complaining would be shushed. The habitants of paradise would be pointing at the damned burning in hell telling me: “But at least, you’re not them.” By which I would subject to this argumentum ad absurdum and nod in agreement. 
Imagine in this scenario that it is us living in paradise, but we are unhappy. There is little to nothing to achieve, that truly matters to our existence in the broadest sense. Things that would truly make us worse off by missing the chase of it or understanding the meaning of the word by true experience instead of false imagery. 
In this paradise everything exists before us. Clothes to the point of overproduction. Food, as much as our hearts desire to the point where obesity is our main health concern. Hostility towards our friends, because our eyes have been blinded by the bright heavenly light of wanting more and more, but not always being able to obtain it in such a human packed place. 
The voices keep telling us, that there is better to obtain, that we aren’t working hard enough, desiring hard enough, buying hard enough in order to obtain the obtainable. Namely, the thrones of the gods who are sitting above us, exclaiming that we should be grateful for the purpose they have presented in front of us. The purpose of becoming them and that rejection of this means wanting to burn in hell. 
The question that should be asked is this hypothetical scenario is, which of the places would I rather be? Is it paradise or hell? Paradise, where idealistic views will never be realised? Or hell, where you’re stepped upon for not ever being able to participate in this nonsensical game of so called self realisation? 
Having lived in paradise, having walked against many doors with false promises, rejection after rejection after rejection, it is no wonder that there would be some among us that would choose neither.
Thus stop moving forward. Letting everything drop and sigh dissatisfied over the flaws in the so immanent perfect paradise. 

Where is Sysiphus truly now that Camus has left him? Which gates have opened before him? Is Sysiphus even truly happy? But most important of all, what is he doing?  Sysiphus doesn’t live in a sort of hell, pushing the rock for eternity. He’s not happy. He’s in paradise, he’s unhappy with his rock besides him, sitting, doing nothing, but contemplating his suicide. 

Desperation

Short Story

I have never experienced the horrors of prison, but had I; it wouldn't be any different from my current life. I hate my life, all of it, the slow pace, the ignorance that is floating around, overwhelming me, no, slowly eating me away, like a parasite. Every inch of me falling into oblivion and gradually being consumed by this tiny parasite that has manifested itself into the core of my soul, leaving nothing behind but emptiness.
Yes, life is hell, a never ending hell that has solely one torture in mind for me; as if it was specially selected for me. Iteration, endless, mindless, ignorant, oblivious iteration; forcing myself to wake up, forcing myself to sleep, doing my tasks in a continual cycle of life. Making myself get adjust to this mindset in life, although I can't discriminate myself from who I was and who I am now.
Yesterday was today and today will be tomorrow; always the same morning always the same evening, always the same dreadful night.
During the early morning, I stand once again in the kitchen and prepare food for a lazy bastard who can still not pronounce my name correctly. I cringe every time I hear him say my name in that deep grunting voice, that always seems to be short of breath, with a slight slur to finish it off. "Sedaf...my tea." I hear him moan from the other room. I close my eyes for a second. His groans and puffing make me lose my appetite. Sedaf, Sedaf, Sedaf. Indeed my slave name is Sedaf. My real name is Sadaf.
With a cup of tea filled with enough sugar to provide a whole chocolate factory, 2 eggs, bread, milk and cheese I am sit next to him. He attacks his food like a foul pig, stuffing all the ingredients in his mouth at once, turning and twisting it with excessive saliva and washing it all away with his tea. I smile tenderly at him and stroke my hair to one side. "Sweetheart, should I bring you something else? A piece of extra bread.. coffee? Perhaps a little bit more, to stuff your tummy t?" You piece of garbage.
He looks at me with empty eyes and mindlessly shakes his head. Then he takes a look at me from top to bottom. I might as well be naked by the way he looks "You ain't eating?" and I shake my head. "I..." Before I can say more, the television is turned on with the sound blasting loudly an indication for me to be quiet and leave.

Good.

I go off to the kitchen. I have accepted it. No, there is indeed no escaping from this prison. Denial is pointless. I will live here, die here and rot here. For me this home is my state and that man, whom I call ‘husband’, is my master, father, mother and brother, all at once and much more. I adore him. Yes, I love him. I love him.
Whenever I feel I have the privilege to contemplate my existence, I remind myself there is no place in my life for happiness or sadness.
Only survival.
At those rare moments I do contemplate I tell myself:
"My dear sweetheart, does it even matter whether it is you touching yourself in the shower, with the thoughts of a stranger in your head, or the forceful penetration of your husband?"
Those times, I tell myself, when the light of my cigarette is the only thing illuminating the room:
"My dear, my love, it is all the same."
And yes, that is indeed the only explanation I can give myself.
Whether it's the pain of the mind caused by a love one without her intention or the pain of the devil, who awaits to punish me some more every night,
I can see nothing, but the darkness of inner core my mind, bouncing back to me from the others due to my impure thoughts and acts.
And for some reason, even the enjoyment of this cigarette disappears and it becomes as foul and bitter as my mind.
"The better", I sigh and I inhale deeply, as tears drip from my cheeks.

Lucky for me the sound of the TV is loud enough for him to not hear me hit my head against the wall.

The Student by The Bitter One (A Parody on Communistic Literature.)

The Student

By: The Bitter One

Weighed down by misery and looking at the grey sky our hero trudges towards home to consume the same meal that he has eaten for the last three days.

The muscles exhausted from sleep deprivation and fingers filthy from the ash and soot he joins the group of dreary looking students. Their shoulders are hanging low, deeply hidden in their high collars and with grave pace they move their cold feet, while leaving a deep trace of greyish wet snow behind.

Covered in a cloud of steam, the school spews the students out, who, after having served the school, will come back the next day to fulfill their mechanical duties once more.

Irritated and contemptuous grumbles could be heard among the students as they turned their head away from the last bell that indicated their temporary freedom.

The day has ended and the sun is slowly setting. The irritated grumbles turn into warm fiddle-faddle.

The classroom has sucked all energy out of our students and with apple-red cheeks their teeth are dripping with saliva, ready to attack the few pieces of bread their family can offer.

After many years of intense labor, most students have peace with the fact that there is no denying in the grave suppression they all have to undergo and that every step they take to end the day, is a step closer to their grave.

This is also true for our hero, for years of labor have robbed him from his appetite and his desire to drink warm wine.

Other days, when school has ended, the students speak to each other in a serious manner.

Never deviating from the grades and that which manifested itself the closest in their existence: the physical labor that has to be done to the fat-stomached schoolchiefs.

Rarely does a smile break through their monotone mannerism of speech and when this does happen on an unusual day, the aggression is compensated at home towards the younger sibling or parent who dare to ask them how their day was.

And after having lived like this for sixty-five years, they all die, knowing that they themselves have contributed the most out of all students to society.

So too would our hero have lived, as the most loyal worker of all.

He is the most handsome, the strongest and the most intelligent, but also impatient and rude towards any form of authority.

It so happened one day, that he comes across a very moody fellow student who makes a vile remark regarding his clothing.

Severe and disrespectful as he is, our hero responds the surly looking young lady.

Her piercing dark eyes look tired and she turns away from the nasty comeback our hero makes.

However, something is still bothering him, for he has noticed that there was some truth to her words.

There is indeed something wrong with the way he is dressed.

And you see, he tells himself, it’s not only me who is dressed this way, it is also the fellow student who made the moody remark and the students walking across the hallway.

She is right, he claims, indeed we are all dressed horribly.

Horribly the same.

And he notices the students, hungry like wolves, ready to revolt against the regime. Hungrily and impatient to feast on the corpses of their to be former schoolchiefs.

From that moment on, our hero knows what he is ought to do.

Burning with flames of desire, he makes a way through the thick layer of ash-grey know and as he throws his arms into the sky he exclaims:

‘’Comrades...!’’ he has just begun his sentence or a big crowd of students gather around our hero.

He looks at them in aw not knowing what to expect next.

And with grave disappointment he witnesses the most shallow act imaginable at that time and moment when they take out their mobile cellphones to film the spectacle.

Our hero feels at that exact moment all hope melt away and he lowers his arms in sadness.

His shoulders are hanging low, deeply hidden in his high collar and with grave pace he moves his cold feet, while leaving a deep trace of greyish wet snow behind.

Haiku- Karakterloos en karaktervol

karaterloos en karatervol

hier sta ik dan weer

tussen de gelukkigen

welk masker moet nu?

Random Thoughts #3 Dreamer

Dreamer

This story begins the moment I die.
I feel cold. And uncertain. 
My body can't move, as if metal chains have strapped themselves on me. 
Where am I? 
Unable to move. 
My head is fixated to the ceiling. It is beautifully decorated with seashells, mermaids and turtles, slowly moving and swimming above me. Elegantly and gracefully. 
I can't advert my eyes. I don't want to. 
Not yet.
By my eyes feel heavy, they're slowly coming together. 
Please don't. 
The same force is pushing on my chest. I can't breath. 
I can't think.

My eyes have slowly closed, yet my mind is all conscious.
Torture, as the force keeps pushing more and more.
Heavenly grace, where to escape?
My mind is trying to come up with a plan to escape.

I’m know I am inside a room, I can hear the rain dripping against the window.

There is a storm coming up. 
Water? Coming closer indeed. 
It's coming for me.

The room is slowly filling itself up with water, everything is covered in water including me.

I can’t move. I am drowning. 
My legs and arms are solid rock, but fortunately I still have my consciousness.
Unfortunately, I mean.

It’s one of those, I sigh.

The water is filling up the entire chamber and it is slowly reaching for my face.

First my legs and arms, then my hair. Lastly face is embraced.

I take a deep last breath before I will be taken away by the rising water.
I can't breath.


When I wake up, my body is covered in sweat.
With a restless sigh I look around the room.
No water, I am not drowning.
I am concious.
Fortunately, 

Another restless night.

Losse Gedachtes #2

In De Hemel

Mijn dierbaarste vriendin heeft me ooit verteld dat wanneer je je eenzaam voelt of niet weet waar je moet zoeken in het leven, dat je altijd naar de lucht moet kijken.

‘’In de lucht zal je nooit de antwoorden vinden’’, zei ze ‘’maar je zal altijd begrijpen wat jij betekent voor de wereld.’’

Deze uitspraak heeft ervoor gezorgd dat ik op mijn meest zorgwekkende en bittere dagen naar de hemel keek en begreep hoe insignificant mijn problemen leken ten op zichten van een groter geheel dat het in het teniet deed verdwijnen.

Juist dan op die dagen, werd mijn ademhaling regelmatig en de zorgen werden weggeheven.

Mijn jeugd verging mij springend van de ene dag naar de ander met mijn vriendin aan mijn zijde.

‘’Zie elke dag alsof je opnieuw geboren wordt.’’ sprak ze me toe, wanneer we gezamenlijk naar school liepen en in elkaars gedachtes versmolten.

En zo zag ik het ook. Elke dag alsof ik alles voor het eerst weer zag en ik voelde de kinderlijke verwondering in mijn onderbuik warm worden, wanneer ik over haar balkon naar de mensen beneden keek.

‘’Wat zie je?’’ vroeg ze dan op serieuze toon.

Peinzend keek ik haar aan probeerde me te verbeelden wat er in haar hoofd omging.

Ze nam nog een trek en haar ogen vernauwden zich, terwijl ze de rook uitblies wachtend op mijn antwoord.

‘’Insecten.’’

Vanuit haar ooghoeken zag ik hoe er rook uit haar omhooggetrokken lippen kringelden, terwijl ze me met moederlijke zorg aankeek.

Dit gaf me enige mate van vrede, maar het beklemde mij ook.

We zaten stil naast elkaar, terwijl ik onze klasgenoten richting school zag lopen. De pauze was voorbij.

De stiltes waren aangenaam, niet gedwongen noch ongemakkelijk, maar erg vredig.

Wanneer er echter gesproken werd, waren het woorden van wijsheid uit haar mond terwijl ik met stotterende stem haar probeerde te volgen en te herhalen.

Glimlachend hiel ze dan haar handen door haar haar en legde mij op rustige toon uit wat ze bedoelde en ik bleef stil luisteren.

Ze was een en al charme en elegantie wanneer ze gepassioneerd sprak. Ik tuurde soms af naar haar wilde handbewegingen die ze maakte om haar woorden kracht te geven.

En na elke monoloog was er een korte stilte waarbij ik instemmend knikte om haar verhaal nogmaals te bevestigen.

Ze glimlachte wederom moederlijk naar me en zei met een hoge stem dar we naar school moesten.

De dagen vergingen en net als haar donkere kleren en asbak, werd haar humeur grimmiger.

Met geknepen ogen keek ze om haar heen. In haar handen kneep ze de uitgedoofde sigaret plat.

Spreken was een zeldzaamheid en wanneer ze sprak was het altijd formeel met veel ‘’dank je wel’’ en ‘’het vergaat je goed’’.

Wat er in haar omging durfde ik niet te vragen.

De zachte herfstdagen vervielen een koude strenge winter. De asbak rookte als de haard, terwijl de ene sigaret na de andere werd uitgerookt aan de lippen van een nors gerimpelde voorhoofd, ik deed zo af en toe gehoorzamend mee.

De eens zo fijne stiltes waren ongemakkelijk en onwennig.

Maar ik vroeg toch niks.

Een paar weken later had ik opgemerkt dat haar vaste plek naast mij leeg was.

De gebruikelijke goede vriendin zijnde, liep ik richting haar huis en opende met gemak haar altijd openstaande deur; ze zat daar met een kop thee in de woonkamer en staarde gefronst uit het raam.

Haar handen waren verder leeg en ze rook fris.

Ik moest glimlachen.

Speels riep ik naar haar toe en we zaten stil tegen over elkaar terwijl ze kijkend door haar wimpers thee zette.

‘Bliss, bliss and heaven.’ citeerde ik mezelf voor.

Eenmaal boven zaten we tegen over elkaar en sprak ze eindelijk:

‘Je rookt niet meer?’ terwijl ze zichzelf omhulde in een grijze sluier.

Ik staarde naar haar besneden roomkleurige huid en verzuchtte: ‘’Nee.’’

Bedachtzaam vormde een rimpeling op haar blanke voorhoofd en het deed me zenuwachtig haperen naar lucht.

‘’Er zit een kinderlijke onschuld in, he?’’ bracht ik er zo zorgeloos mogelijk uit. Ik stond op, liep heen en weer en draaide op mijn hielen met ogen vol licht.

‘’Laatst zag ik een hart.’’ en ik legde suggestief mijn hand op mijn borst. ‘’Waarschijnlijk klaargelegd voor een donor, het werd kunstmatig in leven gehouden.’’

De rimpel vernauwde zich en met getuite rode mond bedekte ze zichzelf weer in een grauwe sluier van as.

Ik ging door: ‘’Ik hield mijn adem in en probeerde het ritme te volgen van de hartslag, het ging moeizaam, maar uiteindelijk lukte het.’’ een verdwaasde glimlach verscheen op mijn mond en ik verschoof de gekrulde zwart krul die voor mijn oog bungelde.

‘’Op dat moment merkte ik opeens een warm gevoel, die ik alleen kan associëren met moederlijke liefde, begrijp je?’’

Ze snoof. ‘’Moederlijke liefde met een orgaan.’’

‘’Ja.’’

Ze knikte instemmend en keek naar de lucht. Nog voordat ik haar weerwoord kon geven, nam ze een pakje uit haar zwarte mantel en reikte het aan.

En nog voor ik er met mijn volle verstand bij was, reikte ik mijn hand uit.

Niet vele dagen later was ze verdwenen.

Haar ouders hadden mij opgebeld en ik kwam zo snel mogelijk aan. De zoektocht duurde niet lang aangezien ik wist waar ik moest kijken.

Ik rende met snelle tred naar het bovenste gedeelte van het huis en zakte op de bovenste tree in elkaar met mijn hoofd tegen de muur en de ogen geworpen naar de hemel.

Vaag in de verte kwam mij een bekende rooklucht tegemoet.

De hemel was grijs, mijn tranen zwart en haar lichaam bleek.

Dwang tot bestaan.

Dwang tot bestaan.

Het was nooit aan ons de keuze geweest om geboren te zijn in de eerste plaats.

En dat voornamelijk in deze wereld, waarin de afwezigheid van God meer dan ooit merkbaar, voelbaar is.

Zowel in de morele zin, waarbij Gods wil de grondbeginselen bepaalt voor onze ethiek, als in de praktische zin van het woord, waarbij hij de eeuwige waarheid met zich mee zou moeten dragen om de mensheid tot consensus te laten komen, is God of afwezig of indifferent.

Dat brengt een bepaalde sfeer van leegte met zich mee, waarbij ik niet enkel alleen op mezelf moet steunen, maar daarbij ook nog eens niet de steun bij een hogere macht kan vinden.

Eenzaam en koud, verward en leeg worden we de wereld in geworpen tussen andere soortgenoten, die het pad des levens in zoverre bewandeld hebben dat ze denken te kunnen oordelen over ons recht van bestaan.

Met andere woorden, de mens acht zich in dermate hoog genoeg om voor God te spelen en uit de weinige beschikbare middelen leven te doen ontstaan.

Of dit besluit bewust of onbewust is genomen, het zet een brandmerk op het kind waar het nooit vanaf zal komen.

Immers in deze dat hij, eenmaal geboren, gedwongen is te leven om daarna oftewel verder te leven of er al geheel een eind aan te maken.

Hoe het ook zij, mocht het kind toch een eind willen maken aan zijn leven, dan is hij in dermate impotent om daar een keuze over te maken, voordat hij zichzelf zo heeft ontwikkeld dat hij weet wie hij is en wat hij betekent voor zowel zijn omgeving als voor zichzelf.

Tegen die tijd is er enkel slaafse dwang van zijn omgeving, waar hij voor neer dient te buigen door zijn onvermogen de wereld en zichzelf te kunnen begrijpen.

Daarnaast heeft hij, geworpen in de wereld, geen andere keus dan dit te doen, omdat hij volledig vrij is geboren.

Daarmee bedoel ik dat hij de mogelijkheid heeft om zichzelf te maken tot iets wat hij later wil zijn.

Het problematische hieraan is, is dat zijn vrijheid beperkt wordt in de eerste levensjaren omdat hij nooit het vermogen had om zijn omgeving a priori tot zich te nemen en daar een keuze over te maken.

Nee, in de eerste levensjaren wordt het kind op marxistische wijze ingevuld met informatie, indrukken en geluid, gevoelens en vormen, waarna hij later een geheel kan gaan vormen.

Inderdaad is de mens vrij geboren, misschien is hij wel iets te vrij geboren waardoor het zijn indrukken aan de ander kan opleggen.

Het paradoxale hieraan is dat het kind enerzijds niet de mogelijkheid heeft zichzelf in te vullen omdat hij de wereld in is geworpen en anderzijds het noodzakelijk is dat hij ingevuld wordt omdat hij anders zichzelf niet verder kan realiseren.

Problematisch gezien levert dit het probleem op dat de mens eenmaal de keuze gemaakt hebbend in zijn leven, nooit de keuze kan keren en dus ook de consequentie ervan tot zich moet nemen omdat hij juist gedoemd is zo vrij te zijn.

Vreemd genoeg draagt de mens ook de invulling van zijn omgeving, die hij in zijn eerste levensjaren heeft verworven met zich mee en de daarbij komende consequenties.

Daar ontstaat de dubbelzinnigheid.

Enerzijds dat zijn jeugd bepalend is voor zijn latere levensjaren en voor de beperking aan keuzes die hij voorgelegd krijgt.

Anderzijds als het kind niet ingevuld wordt, , zodra de invulling van deze vrijheid niet begint, zodra de keuzes niet worden gemaakt waarmee hij zijn eigen essentie bepaalt, is hij paradoxaal genoeg een slaaf aan zijn eigen bestaan.

Hij stopt met existeren (dat wat de mens bestempelt tot mens!) en hij reduceert zichzelf tot een object.

Niet alleen jegens zijn omgeving, maar het meest jegens zichzelf.

De mens gedefinieerd

Gedwongen te bestaan leeft een mens nooit in isolatie, maar altijd te midden van andere lotgenoten.

De mens gedefinieerd hebbend als een behoeftig dier, is het er altijd op uit om zijn onderbewuste driften tot hun recht te laten komen.

Hierbij is het vaak niet bewust van zijn driften, totdat het in het bewustzijn vertaald wordt zodat het doel makkelijker behaald kan worden, niet door dierlijk instinctieve reflecties, maar door redelijk nadenken.

Tot deze behoeftes behoren de meest basale, zoals hongerdrift en seksuele ladingen dat tot hun climax moeten komen, zodat de mens weer terugkeert in een toestand van rust.

Wat de mens niet tot dier kan laten worden is het aspect dat zij door hun zelfbewustzijn een bepaalde weg kunnen afleggen om deze gedeelde driften tot ontlading te laten komen.

Dit creëert de persoonlijkheid.

Doorgaand op het zelfbewustzijn; het zelfbewustzijn is datgene wat de mens in staat stelt om zichzelf te verhouden tot zichzelf en zijn omgeving.

Sartre duidt dit aan met être-pour-soi, wat inhoudt dat de mens een zelf-creërende subject is dat zijn eigen essentie maakt door te streven naar het être-en-soi.

Het être-en-soi is datgene wat helemaal met zichzelf samenvalt, dat houdt in dat je jezelf niet meer creëert, maar zoals een God al volledig bent.

Het tegenstrijdende hieraan is dat je als mens nooit dit stadium kan bereiken omdat je gedoemd bent hierin te falen.

Deze wisselwerking vormt de speelruimte waarin de mens een subject is te midden van vele andere objecten die hij gebruikt om zichzelf te creeëren.

Er zit geen happy ending aan elk falen. De happy ending zit hierin dat je niet meer kan dan leven, punt.

Daar zit het hele leven in besloten. Namelijk dit, dat je alleen maar kan leven met zowel de goede als de slechte momenten.

Er komt geen daarna meer, er zit geen bedoeling in, omdat die bedoeling nooit in de wereld lag.

De objectieve buitenwereld functioneert enkel en alleen volgens de natuurwetten waaraan we ons niet kunnen onttrekken, het kent geen morele waardes, noch gedragsregels.  

Dit houdt in dat elke vorm van goed, slecht, mooi, lelijk of elke andere abstract begrip dat we aan de werkelijkheid toepassen enkel iets is wat binnen in onze hoofd bestaat, in onze wereld.

Voorwoord- Uitleg

Dit abstracte verhaal representeert de gewaarwording.

Het was nooit aan ons de keus geweest om in de wereld te zijn geworpen. Dat ik niet alleen een subject ben, maar dat iedereen een subject is, hoewel deze functie nooit zichtbaar tot zijn recht komt.

Zo meende ik eerst dat ik de mens zelf verafschuwde vanwege zijn objectivisering van de zelf.

Vervolgens stemde ik hiermee in en ging ik mezelf proberen objectiviseren, wat in hield dat je weigert om je eigen leven in te vullen, maar dat je jezelf bloot legt voor de wereld om te doen met je wat ze willen. Door daarbij passief te zijn in je existentie in plaats van actief en zelfbewust van elke handeling de consequenties te aanvaarden.

Oftewel stoppen met mens zijn.

Hoe hard ik toentertijd om te kunnen krioelen tussen de anderen, mijn poten waren enkel armen die konden grijpen naar een pen om de frustratie weg te schrijven.

Poëtisch braaksel noem ik dit ook wel.

Ja, ik merkte dat ik gek, gestoord, krankzinnig was, maar dat veranderde weinig aan hoe de realiteit op zichzelf was.

Alcohol kon deze fase verdrinken, maar het veranderde nog steeds weinig aan de realiteit.

Want zodra het eerste omhulsel gekraakt was (dacht je) van je medemens, wist je bij god niet welk van de twee lichamen de persoon was die zichzelf in de wereld positioneerde.

Sterker nog, weet de medemens zelf wel welk van de twee hij is of zijn ze allebei twee kanten van een mes waarmee ze in hun vleselijk bestaan snijden?

Nee het leven is niet lijden door andere mensen.

Het was lijden door de schijn van andere mensen, die zich bewogen van het mens zijn naar het dier-zijn, waarbij ze zekerheid verwierven over hun bestaan, maar steeds minder mens werden met deze dodelijk beslissing.

Had Nietzsche ooit gezegd dat God dood was, dat wij Hem hebben gedood, dan kan ik nu mededelen dat die kruistocht nooit is opgehouden, maar enkel is opgeschoven naar het uitmoorden van de mens.

De mens is stervende en dat hebben wij gedaan.

En de vraag over het nog te redden is nog maar de vraag, omdat ik me afvraag of we ooit mens waren geweest.

Het doorbreken van de pantsers zegt weinig over de echtheid van de binnenkant, waarbij de binnenkant twee kanten van dezelfde munt kunnen zijn.

En zoals ik, hebben velen onzekerheden in het leven, die ze verbergen met deze dubbelzinnigheid.

Wie ben ik echt? Wat wil ik eigenlijk? Ben ik momenteel niet gewoon een marionet die, zodra het losgeknipt wordt van de poppenspeler, uit pure wanhoop en ongemakkelijkheid zal proberen om de touwen aan elkaar vast te knopen? Wil ik keuzes maken en vrij zijn of wil ik in de zogenaamde structuur leven die ik tot vanzelfsprekend heb gemaakt, maar die wel mij een begin en eindpunt geeft in het leven?

Voor mij lijken de pantsers van de insectenlichamen waarin we onszelf opsluiten af te vallen.

Er is geen objectieve houvast, enkel de illusie van structuur in wat in onze categoriserende ogen lijkt op structuur.

Dit creëert wat ik aanduidt met het begrip neo-solipsisme. Dit is een stroming dat aansluit bij het filosofisch scepticisme, dat je nergens helemaal zeker over kan zijn.

Dit komt voort uit het idee dat niemand in de objectieve wereld leeft, maar in zijn eigen geest.

De objectieve wereld treedt door het subjectief filtertje heen en construeert hem op deze wijze. Dit toont aan dat de mens alles wat hij uit zijn omgeving haalt om zichzelf te construeren nooit waarneemt als Ding an sich, maar altijd als een Ding für sich.

Ieders leven is op die wijze geconstrueerd op indrukken, schijnen van de werkelijkheid.

Deze verschijnen zullen ook nooit en te nimmer zijn geest verlaten, maar in de bewegingsruimte van zijn vrijheid de invulling vormen voor de latere keuzes die hij zal maken in het leven.

Op die wijze leeft hij nooit in de wereld, maar altijd in zichzelf. In zijn eigen wereld.