Grandeur

Grandeur is a successful man's aim,

but to a fallen one, it is vanity.

It is easy to shun riches that seem unreachable.

For the shun is usually for the sake of others,

and though austerity is not as much liked as ambition,

the latter is empty without some proof of completion,

and scantness is less disliked than greed.

And if not for others, what say we, what say I, to lofty goals? Do I want them truly, will I march in zeal to seize them? Not material prizes, for they are as all of this world - temporary, decaying, and themselves. How can I "have" something else? Will I trust the system of property so much as to base my Life's aims on it, to place the jewels of my life on an unsteady balance made out of human illusions? No.

Will I seek social approval, public admiration? To have the opinions of others focus on my Life and actions, when neither directly affects their Life? To become a symbol of status, a model for others to follow, a statue of opinions and ideas to project upon Society's fresco? Opinions and thoughts shift with the wind, tide, and season, and experience, both personal and public, proves to me that such approval does not signify success. An admired person might very well be confused about his so-called achievements, and public opinion does not only never match, but is often a terrible detractor from the vastly more important opinion of oneself. Does my heart shift in excitement at the thought of public fame? No.

Is knowledge a worthy ultimate goal? I've pondered this question often. Is knowing the countries, the people, the languages, their ways, their skills, the compendium of world knowledge, a goal suitable to dedicate one's life to? Those learned and cultured seem more able in general and more at ease with the world, but certainly the most knowledgeable people are not necessarily the happiest, this adjective a common ruler I measure success by. But to avoid introducing a new concept, assume that I have absorbed all knowledge. Assume my brain possessed the ability to communicate with all people, to quote and transmit all ideas ever written and spoken, understand the world's economy, that I could reproduce the most beautiful music from every instrument made by man, name every star in the known sky, cultivate roses in the desert by pure know-how. What then? Because as I just now read: "When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself". Do I seek a Life of ultimate knowledge and culture? No.

Expressing oneself, even if only for oneself (and often best if only for oneself) is supremely important. It is like bringing out tender new seeds of ideas into the sunlight of the world, from where they can find the energy and materials they need to grow into their full form, and avoid remaining forgotten in their patch of fertile dark soil. For we are both inside and outside, and a force on the one is reflected on the other.

And again I realize I want a Life of selfness. Not selfishness, I hope, but a Life with the primary goal of self-development. And to do this, I need to convince myself that academic degrees, wealth, income, knowledge, and approval, either personal, institutional, or public, while they may be powerful means, are certainly, definitely, and unequivocally, not the goal. I realize this at times, and I've cowered back to the wide path when faced with unsaid guilt and warnings, promises of regret. Will I cower this time? Or have I not cowered, but only directed my Life goals to a longer-term plan? Maybe I cannot now know. Or maybe I did the one, hoping to achieve the other. It is true that randomness and accidents are wonderful companions in this Life, but I believe depending on them to achieve one's goals is a faulty course of action. Intention is the key. If you depend on luck, you might achieve your goal, but you will have learned nothing. I hope I am at each step closer to realizing these truths with my heart as well as my mind.

Proud

(Mar 29th, 3:33PM, bus)

Teetering between casual and true

I've held the world in vain contempt

A mess of burden and flawed opinion

Unjust, a vortex of decay

negates each attempt that we may

present to change our existence.

And mankind, a frustrating kind.

Confused am I, for to be part of it, I feel

equitimely relief and shame.

So capable, dutiful, wonderful,

egotistical, frightened, and false.

A being with vast possibilities

so often squandered and tossed.

Plagued with hopeless imperfection,

the world was unworthy of my affection

and I reserved it for the few,

for the realm of the pure and true,

convinced that no one knew

a worthy way to live.

My mind sneered at those

who poured their soul out to the world

for what good is any task

when the results don't ever last?

So I attempted, lone and proud,

to discard what illusions I'd

unwittingly caught during my journey

of this annoying so-called Life.

So I built up a strict membrane

between the outside and my brain

insistent that my processes

pure and abstract remain.

Mathematician by accident,

my axioms were my soul.

Ignored the fleeting and mundane,

believed no facts but my own.

The world was my laboratory

my mind its skeptic servant

Trapped in the instinct of survival,

resigned to test until the end.

And indeed I built a system

of custom, personal truths.

Consistent, complete, heartfelt facts

The solipsist admired his work.

Then in the nature of the world,

Time and life failed to stop or peak

and I became a sole recluse

in my pure mental abode.

Ununderstood, ununderstandable,

my haughty self would not share

its beauty to an unworthy world.

And Loneliness struck

as it always had.

Comfortable in my achievement

unable to dismiss it anymore

as the fault of an incomplete model.

The sentiment was real and wild

and neither my truths nor my inferences

managed to prove it away.

For a perfect glass tower does not last

in a world of perpetual change

nor in a proud bag of flesh

who, vain, attempted to build

a system that justified and praised

his pride and his solitude,

and disguised his own fragile image,
his shameful truth,

that he was really only

afraid.

Of chance and whim

of failure, of surprise.

Of disknowing the answer

of not being the best

of being only another

dot in the canvas

of an ugly, ruined world.

But the world is not smooth glass

and neither is my nature.

We are flesh, bone, blood, dirt,

air, light, sounds, vibration,

gas, thoughts, heat, waves,

joy, fear, words, tears,

breath, death, shouts, and love,

a chaotic prodigy of creation.

We are explorers of possibility

free threads in an immense space.

It's a fairly mighty concept,

which we anyhow must face.

Bold or afraid.

Gridlike Universe (March)

I see green needles out of brown poles,
proud, upward, forthgiving.
I see light slide oh so gently,
caressing each swaying needle,
each uniquely,
and all at once,
soltiduminously,
shining on each distinctly
not to its volition, but to theirs.
Is this part of our gridlike universe?

I see a gray shade over blue background,
its edges shift and fade invisibly,
yet undeniably,
a swift cloud beneath a white half moon.
So far, so bright, and yet so dimmed
by the halogen yellowish lanterns
that now seem to swarm this place.
But the moon's color of brightness,
whiter than crystal white,
it spawns an ineffable purity.
Alone, nonchalant,
but oh so observant.
Is this part of our gridlike universe?