It is an innate tendency to categorize. We categorize people, we categorize content, personalities, habits, work, lists, friends, relatives, toys, music, places, colors and what not. We categorize them in the most granular fashion which might keep our entropies to a minimum. Seems like we are digital machines with finite precision at hearts. That is why we invented numbers, one, two, ten, zero. And maybe that is why we are ill at ease with the concept of zero being anything more significant than a zero or infinity being anything that could be pinpointed on a number line. We tend towards infinity but never quite make it. But if we just look at the zero and the infinity, they are just stating the obvious, the continuity of being.
But then I marvel at the way we see things despite their finiteness. How high is the sky? Or how wide? We’re just ants on a rolling ball and we don’t even know what is the absolute top, or which way is right. We are just as right as our point of reference and as infirm as it is. Our ignorance of infinity creates a splendid mirage of a beginning with an end, a mirage so strong that we actually start to chase it and believe that it can be surpassed. Alas! We can fill our eyes with only as much as it can see. It makes us feel safe within the confines of finiteness.
In this finiteness we discover stories. Stories as it seems, begin and if they are lucky enough, reach a closure. Others fall off the edge into a blackness of uncertainty. But if I look at them on the scale of infinity, which by its very nature might not be possible while I myself am standing on it, I can easily state the story in one line (obviously omitting its innards). But if I am propelled by this objective cynicism, I am at loss of the beauty that lies in between the two points across which I drew the bee line. What makes a story? Taken on the very same infinite scale, the story essentially picks up from nowhere and ends up nowhere, it is the precision with which we walk on it. So what is it that we rejoice about? All authors do is to write about characters who are born and ultimately die with a dozen permutation of various classifications of activities and emotions filling up the timeline in between. Permutations, because ordering is important, so no one story resembles the other. If it does, we call it history repeating over. We are amazed at these creations because we’ve not achieved that altitude where they perch when they write.
Where does it end? I don’t think it does, or it should. It goes on like the zero and the infinity. Sure, one day it will all settle down. We don't have to do much, it will all fall to the absolute minimum, the state of absolute rest. It will be cold. One day we will see the glimpse of what it is, to be a God, to be and not be at the same time, that absolute state of rest, that tranquility, that peace; the state in which Vishnu reclines on Sheshji midst the ocean of this changing world. Then we’ll know what it is to be absolute; whole. No love, or hate, or any emotion will be left to feel in a single moment, we’ll know it all and will have lived it all, not just in ourselves but in anyone and everyone in all the worlds. The day when Akashics decrypts themselves to our every vibration, when we'll need no keys. It would be one moment when we will find that tipping point and it will all begin again. The very next moment, we'll either cease to be in this conscious state and be everywhere, or we’ll start again. We’ll be formed again, from stardust; just like our stories.
(Image Credits: Google)
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