Tuesday, October 16, 2018

At The Library


Occasionally I make feeble attempts at reading philosophical works; never sure what I'm hoping to find but somehow still driven to explore.  I was quick to abandon The Republic, by Plato, and now I'm finding Immanuel Kant hurts my brain.

Obviously these are not paths I'm to be taking, but why then do I find myself drawn to them?  What can I possibly be in search of?  I have long since accepted the basic realities of society, the harsh truths of politics as well as the inadequacies of time itself. 

I seem an unfinished canvas hoping I'll one day back-up far enough to see the whole picture, yet being the canvas it remains impossible to back up from myself at all.

I experience being at the library as if I'm riding in a crowded foreign elevator, surrounded by odd languages, casual as well as pressing topics being spoken, all the while watching the descending numbers of time ticking floors off of my life.

Perhaps it is my personal race against time that keeps me searching, looking - hoping to find that one perfect philosophy.  And just maybe it poses the right questions, twisting my Rubics brain into forming the right answers before I reach the bottom floor.



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