The Philosophy of the Infinite

Philosophical Prologue

We face a universe with no start and no end to understand and no point to be anxious about.

a anarchy of life which will not give us a centre, a bearing, or even a purpose.

But the human mind, weak and desperate, demands its meaning carved out of the cosmos which is indebted to it nothing.

This labor challenges the greatest of all illusions:

the illusion of the infinite being measurable, contained, intelligible, within the confined space of human thought.

In this case, it is not comfort but rupture of philosophy.

It disintegrates the inherited images of certitude.

and makes consciousness to sink down to the centre of nothingness,

that mute abode thither primal mind retires.

to tune up again its tunes to the great droning of outer anarchy.

To read this text is to leave the dream of permanence,

to watch the meaning in itself disintegrate,

and to know that nothingness is no absence--

but that is the only place that real perception starts.

This is not a theory.

It is a dismantling.

An uprising against the insensitiveness of knowing.

It is a hint to the indefinite that there is no middle--

and, that, who, in search of one, must beforehand dissolve the center in themselves.

The Philosophy of the Infinite Philosophy.

There is no path—only flow.

Philosophy is not meaning, but the parenthesis of the seekers.

It is a damaging kind of skepticism to me--skepticism that is keeping things alive until we can see them fall down after we have made them.

It is the killing of oneself, disenchanting not only the created but the aesthetic creating it, and the meaning of the meaning.

This too is mine, entire, intentional, sent back to the dissecting-table.

Existence moves in flux:

a mechanism of resurrections and selves,Other selves--all the others--Mechanized, all the others-Mechanized-

pieces exploding, up and down,

ascending and shattering.

We are creating a lie of permanence in a universe, which does not begin or end.

and in this universe of anarchy the universe speaks in its anonymous freedom:

Why be in a cage when there is a greatness out?

Beauty is the opposition of things to connotative meaning which demands no effort.

All that is sensible has been ripped off its novelty and made our gray shadow--

but we are in circumstances that are not our own.

Meaning is found never intrinsic.

Long before we came the world was inundated with meaninglessness;

thus it made thinking things give it sense.

The parody is keen: the meanings that we create are our reflections, not our reality.

We replicate them--copy the instinct to read--

and drift further on land beyond the sound of the universe itself.

In this generation, philosophers, I say unto you:

this is not happiness, and this is not bewilderment, this is folly.

It is the power to perceive nothingness.

and reflect upon it ignorantly--

to discharge exactly where discharge is required,

that new symbolisms come into existence as illogical constellations.

passing through your chest

as the cosmos is filled with itself.

This is bliss.

To explain this, I remember a myth which was recited to me before going to sleep-

a fable which has taken on a new significance.

It even happened that a woodcutter modeled all his life about carving the giant cedar trees.

Thousand off sculptures of his, all named.

One day the son said, It is nothing but wood.

According to the man, once hewn I give it another life.

but why not leave it the way it was, thought the child? “Was it not enough as it was?”

The wood cutter responded that these trees were the ones that preserved the lives of the previous generation.

To slice them open is a religious event--a disillusioning so that they can use their bodies.

“I see,” said the child. I could not suppose that the tree existed until you touched it.

Thou cutest, and lostest, and reborest around it, to hide the disgrace of its laceration.

That is all we can do, the woodcutter answered.

Once leave out your own hand, said the child, and make it into a sort of axe?

Would it not suit you better?

Or would you rather have the wood fall upon the ground in thy place?

Then I understood:

illusion is nothing, but a condition of mind.

We do so with fragmented syntaxes of fragmented words.

The fable is a half-reasoned being--

A body that we can dissect to take a peep of the mechanism of cosmic consciousness.

Infinity is not discipline;

it is a stream of perception.

In the conception of others we may only peep through its atmosphere;

not even common sense can realise totality or simultaneity of universal awareness.

In such a way we create comfort zones- shields in a sea of ununderstanding.

Scores of philosophers tried to come out of this zone,

but their egos disenfranchised them of conformity to the cosmic plan.

Nothingness is the space of this--

not a point, but a state—

a silent space in which primeval consciousness sleeps,

and accomplishing its primval purpose.

In this case, the centre of nothingness is not a geometrical point,

but a refuge the principle consciousness makes--

a dumb room in which it retreats out of the strain of the cosmic pattern,

reverting its frequencies to material reality.

This shrine is suspended in infinity.

and since boundlessness has no axis,

the point of empty thing is but our projecting-something--

an imaginary deception and not a reality.

Out of this also arises the last question:

And how should infinite have centre?

And how a man without center can be?

and know through an intellect thought still narrow?

Series: Metaphysical Echoes — صدى ما وراء الوعي

Author: LUCCIAN.LAYTH

Follow for upcoming chapters exploring the metaphysics of being and consciousness.

Perhaps it was an ethereal dream accompanied by a flicker of awareness that trembled beneath transparent meanings, striking you with a confusion that was not a flaw, but rather a gift from existence itself; to truly test you: will you bear it? Or will you look at it with the gaze of a blind man at sunlight and the moon's sheath? What is confusion and bewilderment? Without them, can we say that we are beings who have realised or realised when we were lost and confused? Or is the moment of bewilderment that precedes realisation the very spark of consciousness? Is confusion the beginning of realisation, or does it precede it, foreshadowing what is to come? The meaning here remains ambiguous, and perhaps there is only one way to unravel it: a steady stream of questions that seem tedious at first glance, but which alone reveal meaning when certainty exhausts us.