There was a time when escaping into the frivolous cost one exactly nothing. The days when one could do that are gone. The world and its warring fragments push their noses into one's life in an unending onslaught.
There is no escape from this onslaught, for one can only protest it or do nothing. A protest or any action invariably leads you into a tangle and doing nothing into a merciless limbo where you cannot even hold together your own self-pride.
Border conflicts and suffering neighbours - you and the other - feasts amidst a land of famine - philosophies and poetry amidst the burning human condition. How true that there is no point in wanting to be creative unless the creation is tied by its own bonds of bruise and blood to the struggles going on all around.
If that is so repulsive one could go for a shameless pursuit of wealth. How repugnant to turn one's back to the cry of life and seek meaning within the synthetic trappings of what the world deems properous!
The forces of this synthetic prosperity are tremendous, the destruction wrought by the resulting blindness of people, humungous, next to these a person's struggle to build up a contrasting meaning is a fragile and feeble little wisp of an effort. This is like a tendril seeking it's support against the onslaught of a Tsunami wave.
Yet there is a dignity, in knowing and seeing the tendril for what it's worth. What a gift if that very tendril should turn out to be the route to a larger space, a greater common good! How grand if one should turn out to be the vehicle of this message of liberation!
But how fortunate if one could at least be a part of this path breaking effort!
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