Sunday, April 17, 2011

Part VIII: We Find What We Seek

The search for wisdom; this awakened ambition, when unveiled, is refined by its deep edifying pattern of sharpened artful dialectic. A persevering devotion where satiety lies prostrate divesting itself of popular melodies, versifying ideas until the resplendence of its imagery bows under its conceptions. A garland of understanding, hindered only by this deranged obsession which insists on demonstrating soundness of mind, rouses in us a pure frenzy amid the greatest abodes of thought. Still, we search. 

The subjections behind human perceptions invite us to a battleground where arbitrary forces, long since remembered for their just certainties, disable any legitimate sense of spirit that would otherwise claim dominion. We succumb to the beliefs we tell ourselves. The schism we have in our minds transcends that of a mere split between Greek cognition and Hebraic spirituality. It is a distortion in not understanding our own selves. Perhaps, rooted in the fear of trying not to do so. How can we unite all that seem within divided? Even our immortality seems divided from us. It is not held within but carried on through our descendants. Simply put, is our wavering vision of our selves inevitable?  

We share an uncanny mode of irony that turns on the incongruities of self, juxtaposed against  harsh, bitter material reality. Great strife invites us to apprehend beauty, but it is a considerable aesthetic contextualization when the subject matter is our own existence. Yet, it provides a fascinating contrast that over time is heightened and approved by our affection for unifying this divide. 

For whom are we unifying this divide? For ourselves? Is it necessary to find unity to seek a chosen dream? That dream can not unite the entirety of us. Therefore, it is but an element of ourselves. Living our perceived dream means being fully satisfied with living only one aspect of ourselves. 

Perhaps, rather, the strive toward unity lies in the sense of a divine audience constantly in attendance, a sublimity greater than our own judging our choices. If only we were brave enough to choose between our own Oedipal hero, the cunning Podarces, who kept himself from being killed by Hercules by giving him a golden veil embroidered by his sister, Hesione, or the myriad of other Olympian deities we celebrate within ourselves. Like Mars we go toward Minerva, only to discover Anna in her place. Like a dream reinventing itself the moment you enter its presence. 

With piercing intensity and moral force, we look to transcend the immense searchings of our hearts with great, preconceived thoughts on what we will find. In a bitter irony, we find what we seek. 

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