soli

Author: irfan

  • Today I Read A Post…

    Today I Read A Post…

    People are always talking—but does that mean what’s being said is meaningful? Everyone voices an opinion on something, a direct result of the freedom of speech that the digital age has bestowed upon us. But how useful is it that everyone talks? Just as people aren’t all equal, every sentence uttered should vary according to whose frame of reference we adopt. Do I enjoy the same freedom of speech as a primate? Of course not—words that leave one mouth and enter another’s mind can never be equal in the thoughts they provoke. This is a fact dependent on who’s speaking, and one we all tacitly accept. But when people speak on digital platforms—or when those who feel compelled to vent hatred at us reach our screens—do the thoughts they stir within us differ as well?

    Today I read a post from a Frenchman claiming I’m a fool, and it caught my attention. Where did he get that idea? What could have led him to think so? Does France’s so‑called liberal right to speak endorse this kind of baseless chatter? Does he think that by writing that, he’s spoken truly freely? Indeed, people—and the rights we grant them to speak—can be very peculiar. Or consider the freedom of speech born of woke culture: how absurd is it that those who see themselves as outsiders constantly assume the right to criticize? Excluded from society, they proceed to condemn everyone unlike themselves without end, donning the mantle of self‑appointed defenders of rights. People are strange.

    Humanity’s greatest problem is its struggle to find a place within society: everyone tries to plant themselves in the seat allotted to them within a group, and the moment they belong, they begin to behave just like everyone else. Perhaps humanity is far more ignorant than we imagine, since each person understands only as much as they wish, never even considering the rest. Perhaps we each express our rebellion against life in this very way. Everyone lies in wait to accuse someone or unleash their hatred. One of the digital age’s gravest ills is the social violence and hate speech we inflict on one another. As products of cancel culture, people who have amoebified themselves now spew meaningless words that differ not one bit from the irritating gnats buzzing in our ears.

  • Everything Flows…

    Everything Flows…

    I am changing, we are changing. Change is the inevitable truth of existence. We strive—often without realizing it—to adapt to life’s ever-changing conditions. Everything flows… one never steps into the same river twice. We despise humanity, daring enough to claim that everything comes from fire, following in the footsteps of Heraclitus. We go to a temple, worship in order to think, and sanctify ourselves by escaping from humanity.

    We do not wish to be understood but to express. We fear that if we are understood, we will be considered one among the masses; from the peak of our intellectual ivory tower, we look down on everyone. We read, and we try to make what we read our reality. We believe, trusting the truths we think we know, for we understand that if we do not have faith in information, we cannot inscribe it into our minds. We feel secure in a room surrounded by books, yet we fear the realities beyond its walls. When we are convinced that the room will transform us, we also know that nothing will ever change.

    We are growing old, time flows… Aging is a form of change; with each passing day, the romance in our reflection evolves. We become increasingly numb to life’s meaninglessness, yet perhaps as we age, we long to believe even more. We sense that the ease of learning we enjoyed in our youth has dulled, and that letting go of our beliefs has become ever more difficult. We miss our daring youth.

    Life is in constant flow. Even if we isolate ourselves from society, we see the changes in our surroundings. It is as if, having spent our entire lives in a primitive African tribe, we remain alien to change. We struggle to discern the multiplicity around us. We are overwhelmed by the abundance of plurality, and we find no other recourse but to repeatedly seek refuge in ourselves just to breathe. We are in a state of constant change, yet the reality we yearn for is always found in the existence and nothingness within our mother’s womb. Perhaps that is why our most peaceful—and simultaneously most restless—moments reside in our bare self, hidden under the blanket in the darkness of night.

    Constant change, a life of infinite possibilities, our non-existent idea of what to do, the persistent feeling of inadequacy, our inability to make sense of what we read… Perhaps the golden rule of life is to grasp a few of the continuously flowing thoughts. If we hold on, maybe we can halt change; if we hold on, perhaps we can be happy…

  • Paradise and Hell, and the Invention of Falsehood

    Paradise and Hell, and the Invention of Falsehood

    Paradise was neither there nor here; Paradise was the sound echoing within my ears. Paradise is the truth questioned before my eyes. Paradise is my ignorance’s attempt to feel special. Paradise is the refusal to accept solitude in the universe. Paradise is the species to which I belong, distinct from the animals I sought yet never found. Paradise is the bliss of the falsehoods in the sacred scriptures I have read.

    Hell is my home. Hell is the dark thoughts dwelling in my mind. Hell is the forbidden love from which escape is impossible. Hell is the mirror reflection of the self experienced anew with each awakening. Hell is the collection of memories of a self unrecognizable with every passing day. Hell is the loneliness destined to be felt after death. Hell is the darkness that ensues once the lights are turned off. Hell is everything that prompts thought.

    Falsehood permeates everything. Falsehood is the impulse at the very core of rendering existence livable. In its time, Falsehood was my ancestors—hidden among the bushes—rising onto two legs to encounter life. Falsehood is the initial thought of a brain that awakens once idle hands, engaged while standing on firm ground, are set to use. Falsehood is the daily act of worship performed to heighten the desire to live. Just as happiness would remain elusive without falsehood, so too would the discovery of purpose. Falsehood was an invention; falsehood was the greatest necessity.

  • God Is Zero

    God Is Zero

    God is zero. God is the beginning, the zero in the universe’s first second. He is our ever-absent coefficient of cognition. He is the quest for meaning in the equality we use in mathematical equations. He is the nothingness in a universe where nothingness does not exist. He is the a priori knowledge within everything. He is the eternal reality indicated by all adjectives. He is both within and outside the cosmos—not a consciousness, but consciousness itself. His memory is infinite; everything happens through him. He has no thought, yet he is responsible for the formation of every thought we have. He is unaware of us, yet everywhere we look we receive word of him.

    He did not emerge in Mesopotamia; he exists in time itself. He is not simple enough to be exploited by humans for their own purposes. He has his own laws and rules. He is both the beginning and the end of change. Everything comes into being through his transformation. The only thing we know is that he is the unit of our understanding of order amid a chaos. Everything has come together at once, yet he is not one; he is zero. Zero is sacred because it exists solely as the beginning.

    The nonexistence of something does not mean it is not there; that something is part of nature, and it is within our power to bring it into existence. Just as we cannot imagine what we do not perceive, we try to liken to that which we perceive those things about which we have not found the slightest evidence. Since what we perceive is nature, we have no other reference system than nature for the things we seek. The human mind is too limited to comprehend infinity because the fundamental coefficient of our axiomatic thought is zero—and zero is our cognition, our god.

  • Perhaps I Am Nothing But a Fool

    Perhaps I Am Nothing But a Fool

    The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing—perhaps the trees are absorbing my pain, adding new sorrows to their own. The sight of the withered trees grows even drier, and the pale hues of autumn become more pronounced with every passing second. Was I created to suffer? I lost my purpose long ago, and now even my curiosity is slowly fading… The only thing I possess is my pain-filled self, held tightly in my grasp. I have diminished myself; the outpouring of my mind has become foolish to everyone. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

    The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing, yet perhaps my foolishness is increasing, as primal thoughts seize my mind and render my thinking elementary. I feel as though I have found myself among the trees, just as I saw in my dream last night—I crawl, I cannot walk, yet I continuously strive. Trees signify effort; despite all their pain, they still wait, enduring, clinging to the hope of the slightest drop of water to live… How I wish I could look at life with as much hope as they do—I merely watch them, laden with my own pain and inherent nihilism. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

    The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; I sense the forgottenness embedded in their thick bark. I wonder, will they forget me too? These are the small memories that make up life—do I have any memories to create in my humble existence? Am I worthy enough to forge memories? I am nothing more than an object forgotten beneath the leaves that carpet the forest floor. Trying to live is the greatest disgrace of my life… Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

    The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; my eyelids grow heavy—I want to sleep, to forget. I long to forget where I am, what I do, what I desire, every tiny fragment of my existence. Life is the greatest of my pains; attempting to keep pace with it inflicts an even deeper agony. I want to crawl as in my dream, to be unable to reach, to pass indifferently by those I know, and to fall anew into the storms raging within me. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

    The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; I keep producing words to write—not to be understood, but to express. Will my pains lessen when I reveal them? Will writing restore the hopes I have lost? I constantly ponder my disappearing goals and vanishing hopes. As one grows, one cannot reclaim the goals lost; the only thought that occupies me is the self that has dissolved in the passage of time. I feel like a new person every day, yet nothing ever changes. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.