Meaning is dead. It has always been dead and we did not kill it. Stillborn on the surface of the world, meaning slaps itself on to all sorts of things; no different than the cold carcass of a cow stamped by its slayer. Like spilled blood on the floor of a slaughterhouse, meaning washes off with the first flood. It is impotent to preserve itself in the whirling winds of time. A chalk drawing on the sidewalk has more permanence than the most marvellous of all meaning.

Since man lost his gods thanks to the unceasing blind habits of his "enlightened" mind, since that initial day of confusion when ends, means, purposes, forms, and other worlds nefariously captivated his mind, man queried about the meaning of his life. Digging ever-deeper ditches from dawn to dusk, he buried himself under the hollowness of his mind. The deeper he dug, the shallower were his ideas. But he loved digging. He loved every moment of it. He killed for meaning, lived for meaning, and aspired to become the meaning of the universe. He even named his ideas universals. Oh, that man! What a grand project he drew up for himself and his fellow men.

Now, man's heart is riddled with holes. With every beating of his heart, more blood seeps into his lungs. His breath is short and he cannot rinse the damned taste of blood from his mouth. All he tastes is a metallic dullness, and he fails to find the courage to spit it out. He hides his shame and swallows the bloody burden of his heart. Like a sickly emaciated animal waiting for a healthy predator to end its misery, one last tear slides down the pale empty countenance of man. His death will be a rebirth. When his last tear splashes on the ground, spreading like a flaming dew, it will transform itself to an insatiable blaze and set history, meaning, and all forms on fire. Man will be the coal and ember of his own flame until he consumes himself within the fire that he is. 

First his masks will evaporate in the heat of his passions. Then all meaning he had constructed out of nothingness will return to nothingness. And finally, man's past will become soot and smoke. When the last of his fumes blow over, skies will rip apart in thunderous laughter to welcome the Ineffable. From the ashes of man's history, a naked infant who knows no forms and no masks will arise. 

The infant will have no shame for his nakedness. He will suffer in joy and rejoice in suffering. And neither joy nor suffering will belong to him. The infant will not ask for the meaning of life. He will not demand justifications for his existence. With the infinite courage of an eternal child, he will live and only live to live more. His days will be filled with learning but his learning will produce no knowledge. He will dance and hop around the vanishing heat of the last man's scorched remains. And he will dip his hands in black soot to paint new masks on his face. But these masks will not conceal his flesh like the deceptive masks of his incurable ancestors. They will reveal his boundless joy and love as he dances to the incorruptible music of his heart.

D - 10/10/2019