My desk is cluttered. Why? It just is. I find some comfort in the disorganization. My contribution to the larger society of the cave. My art from the exposure to the of cave society. Funny, the cave is a prison to the those of us forced to return, home to those that have never left. It is my art, my science. The individual trying to find meaning in the chaos of pretending elders. Wisdom is not valued in the cave. Intellect is dismissed for the daily operation. Money leaves an awful mess of priorities misunderstood and communication is lauded by those that do not share.
Sorry....rambling again. But it makes sense, at least to those sent back to the cave. Read recently that those who have reached self-actualization in accordance with Maslow, never lose their thirst for it. When needs are met, one does not react well to their loss. If my cavemate is happy in making sure that physical needs are met, it is because she has never had her esteem needs met. But when one reaches the spiritual fulfillment offered by lifeworld arrangements, the loss of these sends one spiraling downward. Not everybody understands - how could they when they have not reached that level of life.
The cave is cold and dark now. The images dance on the wall a little slower today. Whitman would find no joy here, no understanding of the cave's inhabitants. Emerson would not stoop so low as to see who is in the cave. Plato stands at the entrance laughing in a knowingly way, but tries to be sympathetic. Rene' is trying to do the math. Camus is a stranger viewing the cave and its inhabitants. Box laughs at the Ankh. Nichols plays to the heart, not seeing the shackles. And the one with rake just keeps raking, ignoring the images, inhabitants, the skeletons while waiting for dead shagman to pass his decree.
Sorry, readers, feeling drained. The cave is damp and I want to be dry. The floor is hard and muddy, I want my soft flannel sheets. I wonder what Neo is doing tonight?
