Aristotle may not agree, but life is one bloody comedy. And there is nothing remotely Poetic about it. I didn't believe it when I read Name of the Rose. I mean Umberto Eco could have chosen a different subject for his work. But the fact that he focused on Aristotle's missing (?) book, says a lot about how others have stumbled on to the truth before I did.
Well, to cut a long story short, they always do.
I have always thought of "brilliant" ideas only to discover that others have done that before me. There is no more to be written, no more to be travelled, no more to be filmed, no more to be canvassed... Everything has been taken care of...
Which is why, one is forced to turn inwards. The inner truth. Now if you have been stupid enough to stick to this absolute gibberish for so long, pray stay with me a little longer.
What has taken me, you may ask, to suddenly discover this at the ripe age of 30?
That, which led to the creation of the Big Bang in the first place — Chance.
Imagine waking up from the bed one fine morning and discovering yourself being turned into a cockroach. Might be a good laugh for the wife who now has a valid reason to sweep you out of her life... But I can assure you, not a good feeling. Now, you are thinking... here we go again... Delving deep into the realm of utter nonsense... But what if it's true. Think. Is your life better than a cockroach's? At least they have a purpose to live... To die for...
And I am not even considering Kafka here... I have always found him a little too intimidating for my taste.
The cursor blinks. I wait for the next word. The promise was meant to be broken, so why crib?
