April has been a cruel month, breeding
Feedback out of dead appraisals, mixing
Memories of schedule variance with increment, stirring
Hopes of promotion and financial gain.
Now that is a perfectly godaweful parody of you know what, and a somewhat lame execuse for being absent on this page for over a month (I seriously wonder who missed me apart from a few people whose concern for me is stronger than their loyalty to truth), but I was determined to scribble some thing to break this spell, quite like a 40-year-old virgin visiting a whorehouse (yes, I will elaborate on this later on) just to do something different.
Existentialists debate the meaning (or whatever) of life and turns to their bodies because sex is the only thing they can know for certain and they know the "surdity" of. An existentialist writer turns to the process of writing, and churns out masturbatory sentences that assure the poor fellow of the existence of some meaning/purpose in his/her existence. After the two previous non sequitur sentences, which reintroduced the themes of sex and writing, I will now jump to another point—meaning givers.
A meaning giver is something that gives a sense of purpose to a person. For example, my community can be my meaning giver, or , perhaps, my religion. Some people identify themselves with their careers, some with a notion of balanced existence. And, some just live in pieces, in episodes that are true or significant as long as they last. (As an aside, I think a particular schizophreniously thuddling liar is neither a liar nor a schiz. He is just meaningless, a motley of urges that are satisfied as and when they arise.)
Today I want to write about a piecemeal existence. I am not judging it; far from it rather. I seriously think that I have a strong piecemeal trait. Obviously, a piecemeal thinking process is not going to benefit anybody intellectually, but what about the rest? Think how easy things can be: you won't need to defend a losing team, you can easily change sides; you don't have to support what you say, by the time you finish saying it you will have already changed your argument; and , most importantly, you won't need to stick to anything at all—neither to your sorrow nor to your happiness.
No central meaning then? Not completely meaningless, but rather like history, which makes sense in parts. Or do we need to make sense as a whole? I mean do I need to come across as one person who likes this, follows that, eats here and goes there? Or, can I be somebody who holds contradictory likings, thoughts, ideas and beliefs at the same time, and uses whatever is suitable in a particular context? In other words, can I be a forty-year-old virgin who visits a whorehouse not becuase he doesn't want to remain a virgin anymore, but for no other reason than his casual urge to go somewhere.
Questions at the end of the post:
- Do we need meaning givers?
- If yes, what are your favourite meaning givers?
- If no, what is the smartest defense of a piecemeal existence?
Btw, I forgot to tell you guys that this entire hypothesis on meaning givers is another lame excuse for not being able to continue with the bad parody of Eliot. I had to hurry, and thought that this would give some meaning to the incoherence in this post.
Weialala leia Wallala leialala
