Man is probably the only creature who has precariously deviated from his instinct and perhaps the only creature who sought to redefine himself in his unfounded arrogance - which is probably equally why he is considered the most interesting. It’s peculiar to admit that man is such a good study taking into consideration that we ourselves are human. Perhaps it is even our very flare for drama that fuels this narcissistic idiosyncracy of sorts, this fascination of the self.
We do not know of the strength and the purpose that lies behind the existence of man (this is of course, open to refute). Procreation? Stewardship perhaps? But we know this much is true: that man has constructed worlds upon worlds of ideas to suit his every necessity. For the purposive he has invented meaning, for the devout he has fashioned a host of deities, even the cynical he indulges with pessimism. To go on and on about each and every school of thought that caters to a particular makeshift requirement would be tediously unnecessary. What I am driving at as of the moment is that perhaps these seemingly innocuous concepts are an unconscious expression of man’s vexation at the sight of reality- an argument that is to my frame of mind, rather justified. Consider this premise if you do not completely see my case: who else has a greater reason to lie his way out of reality if not man? If we do not lie to ourselves and strip reality bare, then I personally think that we would be left without any drive to live. If man is truly the crown of all creation as argued by many philosophers, then it goes without saying that in man’s semi-perfection, he is capable of creating a scapegoat of the mind. Virtual as it may be, it is still nonetheless- the makeshift backdoor that man has created to protect both his sanity and his vanity. As to whether I am right side up or upside down, I leave the decision to your objective intellect. Before you define anything that is close to a decision however, whether it is for or against my veracity, keep in mind that I have perhaps come in the guise of a pill – whatever you reckon fitting to help you swallow truth all the more easily.
At scrutiny’s fingertips, doesn’t it seem as if all the fragments of man’s delusions have warped itself to a kind of entity, a thing we have fondly called reality that is in truth, beyond even the pale of man’s descriptive capacity for rhyme and reason. Should it be man’s consolation therefore, that the answers reality gives to those who search for purpose and meaning are never really what they expect them to be? Should man therefore dare to raise his fist and in his frustration, shake it towards a conceived heaven and against a conceived holy host of deities and heavenly beings? Should he dare to make up his own truths and another kind of reality that is none too far from the reality he knows as he stumbles along the way? For what is it really that shapes man’s reality if not pieces of himself that he broke, mended back and shattered again? Man is a being whose existence is under perpetual redefinition. Was it not he who was whole who allowed himself to be broken by the careless, the indifferent, the enraged? This is perhaps a glorious moment for our subject, a moment of seemingly utter selflessness which is not always the case in ordinary instances. Are these the moments that man feels that truly alive? Is this then, the reality of all realities?
It is rather unfortunate that man’s nature and conceit never did allow him to be broken for long. It is ill-fated that his intelligence, the very thing that makes him exceed among the creatures of this world, never did bid him to sleep beside an empty rage. For all that man knows, it might have been worth his while… His nature and conceit spurred him to pick himself up piece by piece; it galvanized him to pick up his dignity, his lopsided beauty, his humanity (even if it is a humanity that he discards willingly to give room to reason) and all the things that he allowed to be mutilated by the careless, the jealous, and the envious. It was all the things he allowed himself to maim. In man’s rejuvination, he is subject to a thousand pair of eyes that smolder their jealousy, because man is a phoenix in his own right. He dares to rise up from his ashes, and this perhaps, is the irony of it all. In his rebirth, he goes back to a reality that veils what is real. Should I dare and say that reality as we know it is a surreal reality woven by somnambulist society? That all this is nothing but a Technicolor dream thought of by black and white people?