One of my first posts on here was to briefly record my journey into an acknowledged atheism. Towards the end of that post I blamed Deepak Chopra and metaphysics for creating a difficulty in a relationship with a good friend. Although that blaming statement was meant to be tongue in cheek, I have found it haunting my mind a little. I would never give Deepak Chopra the credit of my friendship’s near destruction, it just so happened that it coincided with mine and my friend’s reading of the same ‘guruistic’ text, yet nevertheless, we were parting ways by interpretation and application of individual metaphysical developments.
Now, I find myself reengaging with the concept of metaphysics. It’s important to note that I have not been devoid of the “What is it like?”, as that would be impossible, though my interpretation has been solely reduced to the ephemerality, impulsiveness, and profundity of art, rather than any practicality of being. As an aside, I will probably regret not writing more poetry and music, but from what I’ve discovered the nature of despair isn’t always conducive to applied creativity. However, it could be said the applied creativity is a constant reminder.
In retrospect, I believe my disapprobation and divergence from the metaphysic occurred due to it being conflated with physics, deified mysticism and the occult. I could be creating a memory there and assuming too much. Though with its reemergence in my interest, I feel I am encountering familiar displeasures; that is, conflation with physics, deified mysticism, and the occult, except now I feel I am better able to accept the relevant. That said, my metaphysic seems to be quite simple in its philosophy. Basically, my subjective interpretation of the world is good, intense, and confrontational, but ultimately it’s the created fiction of a trillion single cells working in unison to maximise their biological fitness.
It’s not a very sophisticated philosophy at the moment, though it seems the hardest part will be preventing from falling into those exploitative narratives perpetuated by a capitalist metaphysic. Despite my thinking I have a trumpet to blow regarding my awareness to the psychological consumerist tricks for material dissatisfaction, I still find myself guilty of making myself the commodity. When someone I love decided they didn’t love me, I have become the poor commodity. When someone I love has been in pain and I have failed to help, I have become the irrelevant capital. These are indoctrinated responses. I do not like to conform to the expectation, and part of my metaphysic is to naturalise my revolt against that narrative.
I am freaky, but empowered by emotion and the executive. I don’t intend to ruin this wonderful thinking machine; it’s fun.