Through the downpour

If there is one rule that authors should observe above all others, it is this: keep out of the story. Of course, everybody now understands that is impossible – indeed naive – and so the rule has been recast. Pretend to keep out of the story is the modern version of the injunction. It is, in general, a sound rule: nobody wants to hear from the author directly; we want to hear from the characters. We want to believe that what we
are reading is not mediated by anybody else – in other words, we want to believe that it is the truth, that it really happened. This allows us to cry real tears for fictional characters when we know, if we stop to ask ourselves, that none of the pain they feel is real. There is a special category of emotion, I believe, that is invoked by artifice but that is powerful nonetheless. This emotion is often deceptive: it appears to be about one thing but it is really about another. When we feel regret for what happens in a story, that regret is often not for the experiences of the characters but for ourselves, for all that we have lost in our lives. And so that regret, or the tears it brings, can be very real, can be about real people and real loss.
“Since the beautiful is opposite of the ugly, they are two.”
“Of course.”
“And since they are two, each is one?”
“I grant that also.”
“And the same account is true of the just and unjust, the good and the bad, and all the forms. Each of them is itself one, but because they manifest themselves everywhere in association with actions, bodies, and one another, each of them appears to be many.”
“That’s right.”
“So, I draw this distinction: On one side are those you just now called lovers of sights, lovers of crafts, and practical people; on the other side are those we are now arguing about and whom one would alone call philosophers.”
“How do you mean?”
“The lovers of sights and sounds like beautiful sounds, colors, shapes, and everything fashioned out of them, but their thought is unable to see and embrace the nature of the beautiful itself.”
“That’s for sure.”
“In fact, there are very few people who would be able to reach the beautiful itself and see it by itself. Isn’t that so?”
“Certainly.”
“What about someone who believes in beautiful things, but doesn’t believe in the beautiful itself and isn’t able to follow anyone who could lead him to the knowledge of it? Don’t you think he is living in a dream rather than a wakened state? Isn’t this dreaming: whether asleep or awake, to think that a likeness is not a likeness but rather the thing itself that it is like?”
“I certainly think that someone who does that is dreaming.”
“But someone who, to take the opposite case, believes in the beautiful itself, can see both it and the things that participate in it and doesn’t believe that the participants are it or that it itself is the participants–is he living in a dream or is he awake?
“He’s very much awake.”
Rain, to me always gets me in this mood,I just sit by the window sill with a bowl of scalding hot soup and a good book!And there are those times I take the other alternative, I just sit down and THINK. I know, it sounds all too simple, maybe that simplicity in itself is what triggers the impulse, I’ve always been the guy for a simple life, no complications, but My life is the exact opposite,it’s unnervingly complicated and well in all fairness,it’s all because of me, but yet there’s this part of me that yearns for solace in the simplicity!
“In the beginning, God created the earth, and he looked upon it in his cosmic loneliness.
And God said, “Let Us make living creatures out of mud, so the mud can see what We have done.” And God created every living creature that now moveth, and one was man. Mud as man alone could speak. God leaned close to mud as man sat, looked around, and spoke. “What is the purpose of all this?” he asked politely.

“Everything must have a purpose?” asked God.

“Certainly,” said man.

“Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,” said God.

And He went away.”
This is what I sat pondering today,while it rained. You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.
It’s not always about stories though,The Rain, Always has been something to look at, for centuries man has marveled at the phenomena, dazed and yet sometimes it also reminds him that he is after all a drop,that he’s just falling, and he’s infinitesimal in the order of the universe…
Am I awake? Or am I still asleep ? What if I’m dreaming?What if all this pain I feel,what about all those happy highs?Will they just wash away like the rain?I was reminded of My birthdays today, the ones I had as a child. It was as it should be, “Nature doesn’t disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. We don’t value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life’s bounty is in its flow, later is too late.” Where is the song when it’s been sung? The dance when it’s been danced? It’s only we humans who want to own the future, too. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there is something wrong with the picture. Where is the unity, the meaning, of nature’s highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and wilfulness have their correction in the vast underground river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we’re expected! But there is no such place, that’s why it’s called utopia. The death of a child has no more meaning than the death of armies, of nations. Was the child happy while he lived? That is a proper question, the only question. If we can’t arrange our own happiness, it’s a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange the happiness of those who come after us.
While I sat there, pondering all this, the rain had stopped,it wasn’t pouring anymore, our monotonous life had resumed it’s due course, predictable and boring!The secret to life,well at least from my perspective is this, We’re on this planet for too short a time. And at the end of the day, what’s more important? Knowing that a few meaningless figures balanced—or knowing that you were the person you wanted to be?

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