April 3rd 2021

This is an autobiographical Memoir

 I have started reading Heidegger’s writings. His writings on the meaning of being acquire a trajectory of circumlocution. He traces being as a product of race, culture, history and then proceeds on to an interiority of being. Being is a subject of annoyance and ridicule for most philosophers. For me being consists of inner consciousness of subjectivity. There are two realms of being, one being cathartic affirmation, and the other being angstual negation. Again, for me, being is a celebration of life. Being is the consciousness made whole for a meaningful and purposeful living. Being celebrates meaning of a lived life. I always wonder why Sartre said: ‘man is condemned to be free’. The subjectivity of self-consciousness makes being a free bird. I can’t digest Sartre’s nihilism.

Evening was beautiful with the sky glowing in pink shades. Birds of the sky were floating into a gentle sonata. It was an aesthetic of sheer music. Though I don’t have all the things in life that I want, I am still contented. The sky resembled a Picasso’s cubism of art.

In the night, I am alone in a room and I am gazing at my consciousness and the walls of the room sound like prison walls. My consciousness is the animation of the self. I am the maker of my own music. The self wants to make love with the poetry of feeling. I harbor ill-will towards none.

The Philosopher Derrida said: ‘to write is to have a passion of origin’. Does writing require the mastery of the Ego? Is writing born out of solitude. Is a writer a maker of meanings? Is the writer and the writing a search for the self? One has to isolate oneself while writing. Writing is the phallus penetrating the vagina of the paper and spilling sperm as ink. Does writing have a purpose? I don’t write for the other, I write for the self. Writing is the art of ambiguity. Writing brings forth the sheer echo of the beast of the body. Writing is a succulence of a ripe fruit. Writing is the causality of being. Words are shapes of art. Words are the music of poetry. In writing experience translates into the rhythm of form.

 

Haiku