Naming life !!

Every life has a unique tale to tell. It scripts itself as life meanders on—staggering in aspirations and desperations, enamoured of passions and illusions, armed with name and fame, induced with dreams and deeds, and inspired with wills and nerve—in wealth of ripening. Numerous bends on its course—some meaningful, some memorable, some forgotten or some tragic—are testimony of its conciliation with the circumstances for sake of securing own existence. Yet, it presents a sheer bafflement in defining itself with an identity—an identity that establishes, who is who, which is which and what is what, in the mirror of the world around. It raises an awkward question, “Do I exist sans a name?”

What is in a name? Even an elementary scholar knows what Juliet expressed in her soliloquy. The name binds the bond, tears apart too. But, does it deny the existence too. It raises my perplexity and I carry it for so long.

Once I met a little girl and her brother (I wrote about them a decade back on my blog too) who did not have any name. Is life such meaningless that we presume that they don’t exist at all? Nameless is not faceless, yet the story of a life seems suffered when it is exposed to social scrutiny. But, is such an average assessment defines existence in life ?

In peaceful settings of Manderley, second Mrs Winter didn’t have any name. She narrated the tale of her life—her dreams, seclusion, haunting shadow of Rebecca, indifference of her husband—the killer of his first wife, and gradual accession to confidence. All without name in the entire novel.

Jane, an orphan raised at the home of her aunt, when was asked by Mr. Rochester, “Am I hideous?”, replied affirmative with certainty. She was the governess in his house, love him, he didn’t disclose about his earlier marriage and it all surface when she was about to get married with him. Rochester had a name and fame too. Yet, his real face is hidden. He was still bearing a faceless identity before Jane, and with certainty. They got married and the novel had a happy conclusion. Neither name nor fame nor its suppression was a matter of rejection in life.

Meursault was enraged and brutally killed the Arabian. The glimmers of the sun on the edges of his rapier generated so much irritation that he couldn’t resist himself from such crime, and without any future remorse. Was it the Sun, or the Arab man or the knife or the hatred or the intent of crime to be blamed; or the namelessness of the Arabian? The killer had a name and pride of race, but the Arabian didn’t. The novel of Camus evolved around the life who was nameless native and justice was faceless. The stranger remains a stranger so long life doesn’t attempt to know it. Knowledge is, perhaps, also something which exists when known. Does life have similar existence? I exist only when you know that I exist and get attributed by a name to be known? My confusions have grown up with me since childhood.

Jeanne’s life unfurled itself in exploration of delight in everything and died in disillusionment of its staleness. She tells her life through the events of her life. Nothing more than that. Yet, the existence retained itself without her professed identity in social mirror. She spent her end days forsaken—the dreams dried, emotions died and prospects baffled. In concluding sentence, she tells Rosalie, the maid and the mother of her husband’s son, “The life, you see, Rosalie, is not so good or so bad, what people think.’

Life, perhaps, is an impression. An impression has complexity of explaining the truth and value. We run after it without knowing, and leave it when experience. Our pride confines us only to its grave.

Reality....

The pavement borrows romance
From dry smile of a dying moon;
The night bleeds in unprovoked assault of moments
Redefining the mirth and birth of hunger...
The dawn remains an elusive dream forever.

Creation succeeds in conflict between real and unreal

Life is beautiful for its innate sense of creativity. It daintily expresses the beatitude of its being. Even when it fails to appreciate its deeper relevance of its continuance for years and ages, it remains unfailing in appreciating the beauty of its creative self. Life for every living being has a mission that is justly expressed it its own intensity of creative sense. It does not differ much from a cellular form to higher level—of insects, reptiles or mammals—and, finally to human beings.
But, thinking beyond what is scripted for its mere sense of creativity is the philosophy of life. It excels its objective form to attain more subjective analysis to unveil a broader horizon. It transcends beyond a finite edge to search for a greater space alluring into the infinity in its sky, clouds and environment. This is what that makes human superior to other species just in like manner as life itself makes living beings superior to non-living beings.
Yet, it is pretty intriguing fact to experience that essentially what is there before us is nothing beyond a structural pattern of some elements and the science tells us of only a few sub-atomic particles that do the splendour in creating whatever we see. What has ever enthused me to ponder over how can it then differ from inanimate objects to living beings, trees, and to its higher layers ending with intellectually superior human beings? If particles have finite and definite strength and properties, then it should universally have similar effect for all its compounded functionality. If such power is its real power, then there can be no unreal consequence of its effect in similar situation. But, this happens, and it happens more often than it does not in this world of our experience.
Before analysing in this way and much before I could acquire some elementary idea from the views of the greatest philosophers, I had always been queerly fascinated in perceiving the world itself as an unreal world. It included and includes my own existence, my ancestors, my descendants, and all that is there in this world of experience. And, with years of maturing, I have become more inclined to believe that the creative sense is just a thought—just a message—for glorifying a scripted conflict of real and unreal experiences. I cannot sense why should there be such conflict and why should it continue—for whose interest and wishes; but, I find myself more comfortable in believing in a philosophy of life that tells of unending allurements in thinking processes that make it sustain through creative expressions.
Often I think of an image—maybe, a reflection of great mountain range upon placid face of a lake or a virtual portrait upon a mirror or just a photographic sheet that holds the past for years together. What intrigues me is how far they are real. People will definitely convince themselves in doubting over its either real or unreal existence. But, they are in full view before me; so they should be real. Light reflects it before my eyes, reveals it to create sensation. If my vision is real, and if my sensation is real, then what causes it to respond should also be real. But, a reflection of that mountain series can never reach us to a reality beneath the face of that lake, or the photograph of the past cannot be a real fact of experience for many who have not experienced it their own eyes. Then they must be unreal. But, can an unreal object cause real sensation ? If that be so, then there must be something inherent to sensation which does not depend on the object’s real or unreal existence and it is only a creative sense that reflects itself in its own wishes to experience real in unreal or unreal in real or in any other permutation of those experiences.
But, even when we accept that the creative sense can perceive and translate any subjective observation of real or unreal into any chosen form of its wish, then it should also express uniformly for everyone having such creative sense. An unreal thing may have dissimilar effect on various observer for its fundamental void in objective existence, but how can a real object appear differently; it should have uniform effect upon the observing minds for its finite causable existence. Surely, it does not happen in our experienced world. Our experiencing remains dependent upon observing minds—the subjective self. Thus, the objects cannot be a real object. The world we see cannot be a real world. The observer cannot be real observer. Only the thought is real; it only carries the power to bring about any result it wishes to see. And, there lies the creative sense to explore reality in an observed unreal existence and it flourishes in the conflict of real and unreal world within the thought process.
What I intend to present here is nothing more than a few words that will float in the net for a finite time; it has its origin in my own thoughts, but shall remain afloat in the world of unreal existences. People from all over the world writes articles, uploads images and share feelings and thoughts over the net; they all float in an imaginary world where nothing is presented in real ink or colours, people read in knowing not where it is stored. The creative world of our real exchange of expressions also yields before the world of unreal objects.
Forget this article in such a fashion that it keeps on floating forever in the void between those two worlds—the real and unreal.