The Cycle

Often the religious sensibility in me is strong. An illusion is this world. Beneath it all, God. We have our modern theories and tools, but little do we really know of the whence, whither and what for of things. Nietzsche’s Last Men have already stopped reading. Little do we know, I say, but sometimes the thought inclines me towards nihilism. We know nothing, so it goes, and likely our feeble minds, utterly pathetic when confronted with existence as a question, cannot furnish a ground for objective meaning that bears the weight of it all. Probably there is no ground, I sometimes think — turtles all the way down. Sometimes these thoughts, even thinking itself, turn tiresome, and right then the ever present worldling in me leaps forth to maintain my natural inclination towards joy for a while, and passionately do I indulge in the fruits of our rich and twisted land — the sweet, the sour, and the poisons, too. So fleeting, so empty are these, though, and soon the religious sensibility again comes knocking.

Whether to choose one or to indulge and play within the cycle, I do not know. Nor do I know if the choice is mine, or even a choice at all. Mine are thoroughly modern problems.