Arcadia

64

Words escape me, or I escape them. Language is reductionist in its philosophy, we live in a reduced world where life must be explained, venerated, theorized, and yet the pointlessness of such an endeavor must be acknowledged. This is modernity, transgressions and contradictions all existing contrary to each other yet together in this nexus, as if in harmony. It is almost beautiful. It would be, if I were not told to justify my being, to be told again that it is not possible. Words escape me, yet we must communicate, we must express, even if to express is to reduce. We must reduce the elusiveness of cosmos to thought, then to words, and into the air which is to take leave of us and make meaning elsewhere on its own. We must do it, unless we could be like Neizstche who did not speak for the last nine years of his life.

Neizstche did not speak for nine years. The best book ever written would be one with blank pages, and yet, and yet, the best book would not be a book at all. This is a postmodern world. The author is dead, and so is God.