#philosophy writers

[philosofra]

Define Being

Perhaps one of the few things that we all have in common is the experience of life and consciousness, of being ourselves rather than something else, though no one has ever reached a satisfying explanation as to what this “I” actually is; no one has managed to say once and for all this is what I am.

philosofra

[lenainwonderland]

- Vladimir Nabokov

[leonardospoetry]

What gets lost in the translation between feelings and language? I wonder how much of myself I can’t translate into words. I wonder how much of myself I don’t even know.

[enesl]

it hurts to bleed but it hurts more to know who's made the cut

[mysticpolin]

[echoesoftheinfinite]

I'm a pile of unfinished things, unsaid feelings, unthought thoughts, and unlived lives.

[xxrrisxx]

I can't exactly describe how I feel, but it's not quite right. And it leaves me cold.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

[jaggedjawjosh]

You asked for my trust, then marred it with betrayal, wondering why the faith was lost.

[philosophybits]

A writer must never speak of his doubts regarding his creation. It would be too easy to answer him: “Who is forcing you to create? If it is such constant anguish, why do you endure it?” Doubts are the most intimate thing about us. Never speak of one’s doubts, whatever they may be.

Albert Camus, Notebooks, 1942-1951

[juan-francisco-palencia]

𝙌𝙪𝙤𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙌𝙪𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨.

❝seem at times, we have to accept that some people can only be in our hearts, not in our lives.❞

—  Juan Francisco Palencia.

[winningismyjob]

“Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change.”

— Jim Rohn

[philosofra]

Perhaps one of the few things that we all have in common is the experience of life and consciousness, of being ourselves rather than something else, though no one has ever reached a satisfying explanation as to what this “I” actually is; no one has managed to say once and for all this is what I am in such a way that encompassed all of human existence. It is the Caput Nili of questions. In fact, in all the history of the world, no one has ever come to an irrefutable answer, though many have tried. And I have no expectation, really, to get any further than anyone else: they were more intelligent, possessed more eloquence and style than I, had studied deeper and for longer, and dedicated their whole life to these irresolvable questions about the human experience.

It came to my attention a long while ago, and gradually the idea started forming in my mind, and later the desire to put it all down on paper, to try to make some sense of it, that I have not the least idea of what it is I am. I don’t know for sure if everyone thinks in the same way — and surely there are plenty of people in the world who are very much content with not posing the question at all — but for the sake of research, and to try to give myself a feeling of belonging, I will treat this as a matter that belongs to the human experience as a whole.

So I started reading, studying, thinking and writing, all for the sole purpose of arriving to a state of mind in which my feeling of this existence ceases to be one of uselessness and meaninglessness. It is not meant to “save” anyone (partly due to the fact that I don’t expect anyone to read this), but only myself (though if someone were to randomly happen to read this, and somehow feel that what I say makes sense and resonates with them, even if it’s only one misguided soul, I’d be glad to know that I am not alone). I have to make sense of this, or else I feel I will go mad: each day resembles the last and adds no value to my life as a whole, and though not entirely dismissing the possibility, suicide can’t be the only possible solution. So I bought a journal (for the hundredth time, threw away the last one and attempted to start anew), and each day that went by wrote down random thoughts as they appeared to me — though I do often wonder if they are actually my thoughts, and not something I borrowed from a book I’ve forgotten — and tried to arrive at the bottom of the problem (why I felt dull and empty), to then attempt to decipher myself and understand my meaning.

Though as I wrote and thought, and as the days went by, all that occurred to me was not so much the difficulty of reaching a comprehension of what this person, this thing that I see in the mirror, is, but of how useless such an attempt is: the end result, no matter what I do, is that one day I will die, my body will become ash, and I will soon be forgotten. Which isn’t scary in itself, it doesn’t bother me so much that one day I will cease to be, what scares me and confuses me is what am I supposed to do in the mean time, while I wait for this end? Or even better, how am I supposed to figure out what to do? Life expects nothing of me, there being no god or greater purpose to which I should attempt to belong: anything is possible, though nothing is of use. And so the more I went on the more I wondered if there was any use in even contemplating my existence, though sitting here and doing nothing wasn’t a better option.

Then I came across Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus, which merely confirmed what I had been thinking: there is no meaning or purpose, we are free to do what we want. This knowledge which I possess, that nothing makes sense and everything is useless, should be a form of liberation, should allow the knower to do as they please. Yet this was of no help to me: if I am free to do whatever I want, how do I know what I want?

Thus I arrived to the conclusion that, in order to figure out what I want to do with my little existence, I should first know what I am (both in the sense of what being a person means, and in the very individual sense of only myself and my experience). It seems that there are people on this planet who know who they are and what they want to do: they encounter something, find a love and passion for it, and make it the goal of their existence to pursue this passion to whatever degree they want. But then there are other people (and perhaps I am the only one of them), who have no idea what their passion is, thus have no idea which direction their life should take. Up until now I have never been able to say of myself “I am this” or “I am that”.

[lenainwonderland]

- Sylvia Plath

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

The act of creation is an attempt to enter a mysterious realm. A longing to transcend. What we create allows us to share glimpses of an inner landscape, one that is beyond our understanding. Art is our portal to the unseen world.

Rick Rubin

[ilovehowyoufeel]

[beccawise7]

"The beauty of human connection defies logic, tradition, and our inherent beliefs. It drives our need for passion, touch, and understanding from those who see us as we are, not as we pretend to be."

~beccawise7💜🖤('23)