Transcendence

Transcendence

We all have our own ways to transcendence. Most find it via sex, music, drugs, fasting, and sports. Finer souls seek it through meditation and acts of charity. Some more tortured souls attain sublime moments by means of creative efforts involving painting, sculpturing, carving, and even doing humor on stage. 

I, an amateur man of letters, try to write my way to transcendence. I am happy when I write, when meaningful, lyrical words flow out of me and spill into cyberspace. I am not aiming for "recognition" and "immortality", but I won't complain if those ever come. What intrigues me and gives me greatest pleasure (more than anything else, more than food, sex, or approbation) is the process by which thoughts are manifested by words and how the brain locates the right words and arranges them in such a way that the reader would understand what the author meant to say. The more I write, the clearer it appears to me that I am slouching towards a strong sense  and assertion of self and inviolability, along with a dawning recognition that language is helping me achieve this. Thus, in the twilight of my life I am pivoting back to philosophy, especially to the role of language as an aid in our thinking process. Doing this is bringing me no monetary benefits. I feel I just have to do it in order to feel good about who I am. I am not going to cite the more fundamental and hidden psychological personal reason for this restless and arduous confrontation with hard realities, given the limitations of my intellect. I seek no approval and approbation outside of myself. Facts and truths will be my guiding lights and the only standards I abide by. So, in moments of sheer exhaustion, even when the old ghost of loneliness appears and asks me with a tired voice, "Take it easy, Roberto. She is not giving a damn about you. She never did. She never will.", I will have an answer for it, "That's okay with me. It really is. I'm doing this not for her, you understand? Not anymore. Not really. I'm doing this for me, for myself, for my self-respect, my own dignity. It's water over the damn and under the bridge a long, long time ago already. In a way, I thanked her. Without her disdain, her indifference, I would be a different person today. Happier maybe, but definitely less informed. I'm making a lemonade out of a lemon. But why are you crying, Mr. Loneliness? It's I who should cry. Don't cry for me. Not anymore. I am much stronger and wiser. She can hurt me no more. You need to go away. I have work to do. Thanks for the visit." 

(To be continued)