—–I know I’ve said this before, but the main difficulty with believing that there can be any explanation for this life is the fact that it seems to have no prelude. One has to reckon with the potential oddity of an explanation that manages to account for this being the first of something, the premiere in a series. One has to wait for an explanation as to why they have no memory of anything else, and yet are forced, by the deprivation of meaning in current existence, to look forward to something else–something that explains or includes it, or at least follows from it. Often I walk down the street, there I am again walking down the street–and this hits me right as I am going past those three houses, in the stretch there where there is a gap, and the vault of the night sky opens up, between the trees. Why the thought always happens there, I don’t know; probably it is just right the distance from the house, the distance it takes to clear my mind, having left the house behind, as if I had gone out not just to be alone, but to find the time to think.
—–And I always arrive at this place in my thoughts, where I ask once again: how can this be the first existence I have had? Considering that it would require another one just to get an explanation, or to put this one in perspective. Do you see the grand humor in this equation, my companion thinker?
—–So maybe the perspective is not one of time, and maybe I am supplied with memories of other lives before this one. You can get as fancy, as profound and as idle, in your speculation as you want. And the fact remains, that anything previous, anything else at all!, has been blocked out, and that condition must suffice, during in this whole life. And that therefore if this life is to be remembered, it will be in a sequence that in some way puts the content of that memory (life!) before the explanation. Funny enough?
—–One cannot function, at least I can’t, without life being a bounded totality of experience and reflection on experience. Even imagination, if it does seem to summon another world, is really always made up out of parts of this one. Especially, I would say, imagination is comprised of narratives trying to animate and figure out fears and guilts, even that which you may say is primordial is still bounded, trying to figure them out in stories that primarily end up told as humorous tales, striving to be parables of life.  I strive always to incorporate anything strange or at incoherent into the ongoing explanation of life as a totality, a total mystery–in which I revel.
—–I have seen this and it is getting more conclusive, that life is voracious, and exclusionary. It excludes all other options. We don’t act as if death, which surrounds us, is even a factor! Nobody dies unto themselves, they only watch others get crushed and disappear, or sweetly say farewell like they were going on some vacation. And yet, and yet, life persists as a complete, a religious mystery. Life is sacred, sacrosanct, unbreakable. The ridiculous mystery of it enraps the thinker deeper and deeper, and the man of experience grows in this wisdom, and becomes weary with laughter.  He becomes rarified and he is exhalted–and he fears for the resolution of these very thoughts. Because he does not want yet to be caught up by the heels, like Enoch on the wheel of fire, and ride away on the wings of angels.

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