If
the irreducible component, the sole begetting element from
which
existence can proceed is consciousness without intention,
a sort
of weather system sentient for no other reason than it can’t
not
be aware (albeit with no Center to report to), I wonder if the most
persuasive
evidence for this is in the human infant’s vacant-seeming
stare.
There seems in newborn eyes a numbing, numbed surprise
at
seeing so much form, where once had only been a dream of it,
an underlying
scheme for it, the essential governing condition
called
Potential, which is perfect only when it doesn’t come to be.
But
it came to be the infant you and me and when it did I wonder if it
rid
itself of beauties our incarnate eyes would cry to see: indeed,
that
what we think is beautiful are after all
Platonic shadows of what
had
to be abandoned for existence to occur. We die as soon as
we
are born, and prey to rude discoveries like “cold” and “warm,”
we find
we’re at the mercy of the prison which becomes the price
to
pay for incarnation, and marks the death of the divine, the rocky
continent
to which we are remanded till the punishment of limits
ceases
storming at us and we’re finally released from Form.
.
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