Arambath

Firstly, Arambath.

We start out, knowing little of what it is to be, of what is to come. There is no conception of things, entities, or even of the self. The universe is one fluid, homogenous ocean of stimuli, in which one finds oneself floating, sinking, and swimming at different points in time. ‘Who am I?’ does not ring pertinence in this epic drama as yet.

As knowledge & intellect gradually nestle into the consciousness however, one begins to look at what was only seen thus far; listen to what was only heard – intelligence, choice and logic grow into demigods. The pursuit begins, clearing out the paths ahead bit by bit; one begins to see beyond the here and now, deriving basis what has been and is, to gain some sight of what is to be.

And as one proceeds on these paths, staying the course with oneself, one grows... in confidence, self & social worth, and in general well-being. The world is all one wants it to be, clockwork set in motion... An efficient system of reinforcing causes and effects, most of which interfere positively with one's evolving state of being.
One is, by all accounts, happy.

Then, one notices a voice.
It is faintly audible at first. The words seem to tumble into each other, on a slippery-sliding path of unintelligibility. Intrigued, for intellectual integrity sits close to one's being, one tries to listen carefully. The voice seems to pay heed to its newfound audience, almost moving closer to one’s outstretched ear. The message is still rather blurred, taking its time to dust off the still heavy strains of incoherence, when one sees a light flash in front of one’s eyes. And as if in sync with that apparition, the voice amplifies into a deafening wall of white-coloured noise right in that split second.

One’s eyes are still, and ears in deafening silence, inhabited only by a quaint ring left behind as an after-shadow of that flood of elemental sound. One now no longer sees, hears, or even thinks. One only floats.

And for the first time since the dawn of meaning, intelligence and knowledge, one sees the waves underlying everything that have comprised one’s universe thus far. These waves, of essential void, are at times gentle, at times rough, but unfailingly constant in their integrity and truthfulness. Looking at the universe with this perspective hollows out all that is around and within, leaving very little matter of consequence.

There remains only the energy that is the self, balancing a raft on a slow-motion waterfall, along with all the other incidentals that fill up time and space.

The paths, the rites, meanings and purposes have all faded away. One exists, to paint a canvas that exists only for oneself, with colours that one alone creates.
One is free, in the void that fills the universe. One, is back to where it all began, where all things begin; where nothings remains the same, and yet nothing changes.

Arambath erambath arambath erambath arambath erambath aaro...

Foeditatis Veritas

This is the result of a rather random tangent the mind chose for itself a few days back... as are most new-ish ideas I guess... Escaping that little logic-trap auto-set by & for myself, I shall proceed onwards.

I, am tired.
(Speaking of which, you may want to figure what this is up to)

Digressing back to the point at hand.

I, am tired... of many things around me.
Actually I'm not really affected on those lines at this point, come to think of it. So yeah.. what were we talking about?

The world...
We have always found it most natural to appreciate that which is beautiful; pick the flowers most perfect... gorge on food that is most appealing to the little tastebuds (such poetry laden on a word named with such prose!)... appreciate the most picturesque of sunsets... you get the idea.
We have in fact not fallen short of downright worshipping the very conception of beauty. I shall link back to Scott Adams when I can, for his views on this.
But that is where this thought train commenced its trip.

The sunset today did not feature a perfect circle of orange; nor an amber lining in purple; nor anything one would associate with such perfection. But it was a sunset nonetheless - the king did still retire for the day; the sea still opened up to its most faithful companion; the birds still took the sign to fly back home.
And these very routine, very ordinary, very matter-of-fact brush strokes must also suffice for the artist's eye. They don't owe us anything at all. Beauty must exist in the infiniteness, and the potential inherent in every single instance of every single thing. It is by virtue of their very existence, or the lack of it, and the place that holds in an endless opera of endless roles, that their beauty comes alive.

I am thus, in effect, just bored of the obsessively unilateral perception of beauty that the world seems to hold. Bored, to the point of taking up the cudgels for the countless other flavours to 'beauty', made even more beautiful, to me, by their quaint, calm, unaffected silence. Not that they need an advocate for their existence, but more to open up myself and my people to that which is scarcely seen, heard or felt.

When this sentiment had first come to me, all I could make out from the haze, was a rather odd sounding signboard saying "War against beauty!". That it was still rather dust laden from all the chaos all around, gave me some hope for further clarity to emerge, for confusion raises the chances of rising towards understanding, no?
The other day, the sign seemed to have morphed into "Affirmative Action for Ugliness". This seemed a bit more palatable, and perhaps closer to that which the elements wished for me to gauge.

And from there, we are gathered here today, as we round off another day in the office.
And where do I find myself today?

I know for sure, that this particular thread isn't over yet (when does one ever get 'over'?!). But the best I can put it just now would be...
Beauty is not the result of supernatural thought or effort... It is the thought and effort itself. Beauty does not confine itself to that which the senses perceive to be 'good', for words mean nothing in the endless cloud of consciousness (which incidentally hovers over a bottomless ocean of the unconscious)... Beauty is in the essential nature of everything. An artiste approaching perfection at his art, a crow picking away at a rat that was killed the previous night, a child realizing the rudimentary meanings of being, the 64.3% moon singing listlessly to an audience too caught up in dying...
Beauty, is a limitless force that weilds its power only with consent. It is far beyond, and far above anything one can grasp, for it is everything, and some may say, thus, nothing. A benevolent dictator it is, that charms us with its frills, not caring to ever revel in its glories... Glories that we are ill-equipped to even comprehend, let alone sing.

Beauty... is such a thingamajig... My words are too, too frail.