Today onwards, I am the material guy. Philosophy is not a safe ground for me. I have an unstable concoction in my skull and I was trying to play with it. Too bad. But I survived.
Why philosophy allured me in the first place was because I wasn’t proving my worth to myself; y’see, mediocrity is not my style. My achievements suddenly dried up, my life was goalless in college, but my mind never gave up. It wanted to prove to itself perhaps that it can be useful, too good, and wanted to show that it was superior. Of course it is.
Due to the aimlessness of my life, it wanted to prove that life was just not enough. It started to question life, not realising that it was the one who was being tested there. It was just about to fail when the other half of my brain, the material part, came in and helped it survive. But it was superior and that’s how it realised that it was wrong. It had read somewhere that poets are divine fools. Like hell they are not. They’re just morons whom its difficult to convince that they’re wrong.
Surely, the road of excess led to the palace of wisdom. And in the palace it’s written. All the wisdom was there, all the time before us. It could well have just accepted it, and you do, but it didn’t, and now it knows.
Life tests you. You don’t question her.
I may not reach Nirvana, but I will not go insane either.