Ideas and concepts are words I am uncomfortable with in my mind - quite simply, because I do not know my own mind, and nor do you, yours. In my mind everything in our modern age needs or finds itself wedged into a pigeon hole: people, culture, art, religion, and children to name a few. For example: Children are born to young parents; a debate rages about teenage pregnancy, children are born to older parents; a debate rages about whether the parents are fit to raise children, a single mother gives birth to a child; a debate rages about whether the single parent is capable of raising the child alone- everyone’s business these days, is everyone’s business, and no-one minds their own business. This book that I am holding in my hands was written and was delivered by another person with ideas and concepts on which they have an emotional tie, it could possibly be the response to an event so terrible that the writer needed to expel the demons and pin them to paper in Times New Roman typeface, lest they return to plague his thoughts day and night with no reprieve. It is a sad burden to bear words which never relent, to feel inside turmoil of words which need to be expelled by recital or fast fingers and the modern wonder of a keyboard, monitor, and mouse. Of course there are more components that the three which go into the matrix and creation of a computer. If a machine is a mass of wires and electric synapses, it could be ventured that words written on a sheet of electronic paper with electronic words, give the electronic box we sit before, an electronic vocabulary, feelings pushed upon it which it cannot distinguish from one another, words which are just a collections of lines and squiggles. I do not understand the workings of computers, and to be frank, I do not care; I merely mentioned the computer because I am constantly sidetracked and find talking about computers to be in line with talking about raising children. My synapses merely made a mental connection to link the two together for their similarities and opposing differences for no apparent reason which I can determine.
It’s a fucking crazy world, and we’re the crazy bastards who oil the fucking wheels.
In the beginning of writing this book I primarily wanted to examine the workings of the mind by a process of elimination- it now appears to be startlingly obvious that my mind cannot be unraveled so simply by cross examination of culture, art, politics and religion. There are a million smaller components which make up human existence- for the most part other people shape our behaviour, our parents for one. It could be that some children are bought up alone without siblings that their parents devote all of their attention on them, making them either well rounded, happy, contented individuals, or suffocated, clingy and petulant. Its difficult to say- everyone’s existence is completely different from another person. I know a handful of people with similar upbringings who are so extraordinarily different with opposing perspective on just about everything. The human element of existentialism allows everyone to be different, to make their own decisions and choices about life and the world around them, but what of metaphysical existentialism?
Surely existentialism refers to the freedom of choice of the individual, does this then mean that metaphysically, according to the mind, I am an existentialist? Or does that make me as a person, metaphysical? I occupy time and space, my body inhabits an environment which I live in. It’s a confusing concept, and as I explained a short while ago, I am uncomfortable with concepts such as this- it’s confusing, it makes no sense, surely that must mean that as people we make no sense either? I feel as if I have a large ball of red string; with two ends in each hand and the ball of string in the middle, I’m not sure which end to pull at- the obvious answer might be the end which is at the beginning- does it then make it the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning?
