“In philosophy, reason thinks of itself and makes itself a matter of investigation. Man as a philosopher supposedly expropriates himself from the life in which he is immersed as both a man and a man of science, looking at himself and making his usual position an object of his observation and investigation
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** There
are people of different species among us. The artist variety, the financier variety, the career man variety, the family man variety, the romantic variety, the sexual variety, the political variety, the monetary variety, the criminal variety, etc. And much more. And this does not refer specifically to various aspects of personality, a kind of psychological genetics, but to something deeper, something that has to do with the mental structure of the person, more than with his psychological or emotional system. But even at the mental level there are ‘varieties’ that are less common, and this refers to a species that is a bit unusual. If the others exist in a kind of clusters, it is rarer. a kind of strange chicken; The philosophical creature.
So who is he? Which type is the philosophical creature? A philosopher is a person who thinks about life, thinks life, thinks and does not calm down, thinks and does not deserve. Like the waves that inhale to the shore, or the spring that continues to flow into the riverbed.
Being a philosopher is not a profession, or a field of study, or a tendency, or a hobby. He is a curse of a person who is not able to get lost in life, constantly must wonder about their pot. Others accept what is there, as it is, more or less, and progress in their pursuits (or not), only he has something that hinders him; this wondering, all the time he is transformed into this being, behind everything he does, and in the small spaces between one thing he does and the other, he sits and watches, staring, trying to get down to the point of the matter; people are sitting in a café, he looks and asks himself, What are they trying to do? What do they get out of it? What are they trying to achieve by going out and they’re sitting there laughing? Therefore, this need came to sit in a café and laugh with others. And maybe it is not a need but a cover for something. What’s really going on there, he asks? What is the meaning of this meeting there together? He has a problem; He is not able to take things at face value.
The man of action looks at him, and tells him: “You know what your problem is, you think too much.” Problem? Wondering the philosopher among himself, a problem? After all, if the same man of action finds himself on a Wednesday morning in the middle of a crowded market and he does not know how he got there and what he is doing there, would it not be most correct to wonder about the meaning of his actions there, and what is this market? It can be said that the philosopher has not yet calmed down ) nor will he calm down ( from the fact that he is even here. that there is life, that there is a world and people live in it. he looks at it all the time like the first time, frowns and says to himself the most amulet and primary philosophical sentence: “What is this”? and then perhaps: “What’s going on”? “Why”? “Why so”? “Where does this lead”? “Where does it come from”? And so, he’s never inside, not part of the game, not in anyone’s team, never completely in anything. Something in him constantly outside, trying to wake up, trying to raise awareness, in relation to what is happening around him. Waiting for Zik to shine for a moment to illuminate for a moment the darkness of consciousness that surrounds everything. Indeed, all his life he felt like the same man who suddenly found himself in a market in a foreign city and wondered what this market was? What is the city? And what is he doing there? Or in the language of the analogy: “What is this life actually”? One day he found himself alive, but since then life has been presented to him as a fact, as a child – trying to prepare him for life as it is, so that he can live it. But he (even in adulthood) is unable to get into orbit, it seems to him that all the time we live blindfolded, and only a tiny puncture is in the cover and what we see we call life. Suffer bruises, burns, dry blows and internal hemorrhages. But accept it as a decree of fate, and move on. But he did not calm down; He must see, must know what is happening. He tries hard to understand, to wake up, to see. He felt the surrounding darkness, the confusion in his mind. Constantly tapping on the stuck compass, trying to find where the north direction is. He constantly lived knowing that the north had been lost. So in general, but he also wonders specifically, one of the things that really bothers him is time. It’s running out all the time. And what was yesterday, and why what was yesterday more alive than today sometimes? And what happened to what happened when he was 9 years old. So is it now? And what is this old age, and why is it only in the body and not in the soul? And what are youth, and why are they stupid, why are they drunk? And how do the elderly live with their age? Whether in acceptance or in constant amazement. He sees that the young see their youth as something natural and eternal, while the old see their old age as a strange curse, which suddenly jumped on them, when they were too busy with their lives. And this is strange, because the youth see what happened to their parents and the old people knew all the time that it was going to happen and yet, those who think to them it will not happen and those who are shocked that it happened to them.
Why? He asks, what is it like? What’s going on here? Something here does not work out, does not work out. He does not accept. Not the old age, not the youth, not the time that fools everyone. He stands by and wonders and wonders. And this will not be the only one, for example the question of death, and then in general the darkness intensifies completely, and he is stuck. Do not understand, do not understand what it is, why it is. How can one live with it. How did this happen? It’s a curse he can’t break free of; ‘How the hell do you live with it?’ He does not wonder if there is life after death, it is less interesting to him, he wonders, about the very fact of death that ends life, what is it like? How can he continue to live like this?
But other people, are not interested in it. They shred and suckle life and move on; Getting married, divorcing, progressing at work, traveling abroad, having children, reading books, and moving forward with what is there. Although not all of them, there are those who do not accept them at face value and they write poems, plays, books, novels, draw drawings. But this is already some kind of sublimation about this painful and basic being. It is in general all the time at the initial point. All the time he goes back to the beginning.
For example, he is unable to write a novel, or a poem that describes falling in love, or loneliness. Because the way he starts writing a poem about loneliness, or falling in love, he will immediately stop and wonder about the meaning of falling in love; Why do people even fall in love, is it real? Or is it a cover for existential loneliness? Does there really exist a second half for each person? Why does it usually end? And ended badly? Why the greatest love can end with hatred everything is great. Asking and asking and asking. And along the way he rejects and tramples on clichés, and banal insights, and seeks, seeks to really understand. Looking for that spark of insight. And sometimes there’s a zik, sometimes he understands something about love, and then like a little kid he wants to run to grab someone on the street, grab his sleeve and tell him something like: ‘Listen, you know that…” “Or did you think that…”. But usually people, even people he knows, don’t have the strength for it. They consider it egg wickets. And he for whom this is the soul of his life, finally runs to a sheet of paper and scribbles on it with the heat of tears of insights, before sinking into mechanical darkness, again.
He walks among the people who live their lives, as a tourist in a foreign country, as an outsider, looking at what is happening like a differentiating glass road. And constantly
says things to himself about them and about him, like a sports commentator on the field. Others live their lives he somewhat lives them and a lot tries to interpret them.
Know that most of what he sees are ruptures and patches of something much broader. And even if it manages to absorb more extensive parts of the whole, then this too is a cover for something that lies below, and the one that is covered is also a cover. And he does not believe what he sees, but knows that in what he sees there is a hint of what is hidden. He lives in an existential detective puzzle. People manage relationships, and he is convinced that what really motivates them are power struggles. He sees love, but observes the cracks. For him to verify that he will succeed, or not, to glean from this constant observation and wondering, there is more value than a diamond bracelet that he will find on the street. And it does not matter at all that the meaning is negative for him. The joy of discovery is stronger than the emotional or egoistic subjectivity. And in this respect he is limited, because if he comes to share an insight about something unflattering that he has discovered about someone, that very person will not thank him and he will not understand why the friend will be angry, why he is not happy with him in the discovery of the hidden meaning. He will not understand the friend’s desire to be left with false truths with which he feels better. He sees the vanity, the emptiness, the deceitfulness, the obscurity and the temporality of everything. And therefore he sees nothing in life except philosophy, all the hatreds, loves, happiness, pleasures, seem to him meaningless, compared to the particles of discovery of the existential truth of man in the universe. He cannot accept religious-spiritual explanations about cosmic truth, about believing in God, and that we should pray and believe and then become part of the truth. On him it does not work. He knows that everything is lost, that we really have no hope, that if there is a cosmic plan, we are probably not part of it. We are straying and mistaken and trying through a reformed society and enlightened science to introduce an order of insight and meaning, but all these are small, local and superficial, and there is nothing between them and the understanding of life, these are explanations of conveniences, or explanations of one of the five blind people who realize an elephant and one of them weaves a theory about life. He is as Socrates said: “I know that I do not know, but there are those who do not know this either
.” But something, he still knows; Know that we are small, weak, aging, going to get sick, say goodbye to our loved ones and finally die. And yet he can’t stop wondering about the meaning of this unrelenting accident. This tragedy at the end of which everyone is cursed with disease, aging and death. Others are busy licking the drops of honey from the bush before it detaches from the wall of the pit and falls into an abyss at the bottom of which snakes sizzle. He observes the discourse, sees aThe cracks in the stem, and trying to understand what caused it to crack, why does the person continue to hold, even though it falls? What lies above this pit on which the bush grows? Why are there snakes downstairs? And why the hell is everyone going on this crazy lick of the honey drops?
What’s going on here? What’s happening?
Gabriel