The book of life

For some, life is an open book, for others not so much. Some believe in destiny, fate; another school of thought, free will, like in a book of blank pages to work on as you please. If life is a book, written or unwritten yet, it must contain language. It brings to mind, Ludwig Wittgenstein’s first philosophical work ‘Tractatus Logico Philosophicus’ which considered the world to be a vast collection of facts, arranged logically, that we use language to try describe them in a seamless and efficient way. It’s later in his life that he wrote ‘Philosophical Investigations’, to undercut his own earlier work, in that he considered the world much more fluid in how we use language games to create meaningful narratives of, like in poetry perhaps. Seeking to define everything set to literary rules can be an Achilles heel in writing. In such case no one would have ever invented free verse 🙂 The first thing one understands in the use of language, is that there are no rules; it’s an evolution of sorts, based on our immediate context. Change is the only constant even in language. I’m still making sense of Wittgenstein but I also wrote a poem on ‘The Prison House of Language’ a while back, that brought me to read his book in the first place. I’ll publish it soon.

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Plain, like a sheet of windy sky / each time we leaf ahead / and then we leave impressions for another day / when we turn the page to inscribe love, sorrow, joy or splatter stains like inky tears // 

We dig deep our rage, lightly scribble inanities / etch an anxious moment, engrave our doubts / and some pages we leave blank / not knowing how to essay a gospel legible to the mind //

The life bible copied by scribes transmuting historical omissions /  or flagrant errors / yet so esoteric in revelations of the whore of Babylon / like invidious spine in this manifest tract / for our moral foibles and unbending compunction //

There are stories to suit every fancy / a virgin birth / Ecclesiastes laments in a cross between Kant and Schopenhauer / the holy spirit in the realm of the unseen, the ear of God //

Hardly original this / pattern engraved in the solidity of rock / self replicating in molten ambition or hardening in regrets / but we choose our script / our David / our Leah / Job / our Jonah and our Moby Dick //

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The book of life.

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