Skip to main content

The Book of Job

By

The book of job








Job I


Genesis
job never escapes the asylum of irrational and absurdified world of possible impossibilities which I have made years ago. He still haunts me with the myth he carries along and the ever lasting memory of my soul which I have to transform in to the words of events and accidents- necessitated creations of life.
The condition of written-ness of the life and the destruction of the fate and hope, because of the condition of the life in a state of being written already, makes me mad. Insanity becomes sanity when we lose our sanity in a world of existential philosophy and post modernism. Job presents a typical postmodern man who succumbs to the trifles and vanities of whole life offered in order to succeed the life over the conditions defined.
Job was conceived in the matrix of my discursive realms, purgating the existential existence and the essential definition of I, Me, My and Mine in a space of mythicized and mystified identities; rational and fictional conditions; dynamic and mechanical rolling of the events; realization of peripetia and anagnorisis; deconceptualization of fate and hope; demythification of myths and realities, heaven and hell, virtue and vice, life and death, dreams and reality, fate and hope, future and past.
Life is nothing but an already written text.  We go through the events written in the text that we may see them and experience the conditions allowed and allocated for each and every existence; realize the spirituality of the soul for all existing/ living or non-existing/non-living in the space allowed for in the vast realm of universe. There is no future and hope but everything is already been written down-  the rotation of the planets on their own axis and the vicious circulation around their sun; position they have given in the vicious circle; life and air they are surrounded by; span of the lives and the conditions they are given; length and number of their breath; events  to go through; changes that the conditions need to meet with; evolutions that the existence go through;  certainty of the death to pass one stage to another; seasonal changes; spring, summer, autumn, winter- “ if winter comes can spring be far behind?”
What are future and dreams, hope and fate? Future is the hope on events dreams are far possibility of events written down in the text. We dream because there is a possibility of accessing the events. If the events are not fixated in the life circle we may not be able to access it. Hope is nothing but a myth. They say, what makes us live is the hope. The conditionality of hope and the correlational existence of transcendental subjects and the textual probabilities make hope an inevitable and undeniable subject of life, hopes are medicines for losers and agents for fools. What if the conditionality of the hope contradicts the mythical flow of belief system? Man/woman begins to curse his/her life. We hope for the better and the best, what we get is defined already and nothing remains outside the system/structure. Fate is the textuality of events in the structured life circle. We meet and go through the same events twice or thrice. Events are same but they take place in variant contexts, that’s why we leave everything to the existence of the fate. Fate replaces the hope because hope fails to meet the manmade vocations, finally we rely on the fate- unconsciously we believe in the already written-ness of our live.
A text does not exist until it cannot be read. Life is a text; it exists because we read it. The absurdities, relativities, gravities, entities, identities, sanities, insanities, etc., make it same but different in personal and relational.

*** 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dead and Buried

By
We all leave something behind—not by accident, but for a reason we don’t fully understand. As though some cosmic law silently demands it of us. And we obey, unknowingly, yet unfailingly. We, fragile creatures, live not just to exist, but to leave traces of that existence—marks etched in time, invisible perhaps, but undeniably real. We come into this world incomplete, having left a piece of ourselves elsewhere. When we first take the shape of a foetus in the womb, something essential is set aside. And when we die, we don’t simply vanish; we begin a journey back—to retrieve what was once ours, what we unknowingly surrendered. But even in that act of return, we leave more behind. Our lives are full of quiet departures. A moment. A glance. A word. Our love lingers. Our memories settle into the corners of rooms. Our shadows remain stretched across places we’ve passed through. Our presence clings to people in subtle, haunting ways. Sometimes we leave behind dreams never fulfilled, words nev...
Post a Comment
Read more

Wake me up...

By
Wake me up when December bells. until then, let me sleep in thy... 
Post a Comment
Read more

Unknowing

By
I choose the heart of darkness — not in despair, but in reverence — to immerse myself in its monstrous chaos, the womb from which all beginnings bleed into existence. I do not flee the shadows; I invite them. I slow the light, restrain it, keep it from intruding too close—because some truths are born only where light hesitates.  I sense what is coming. The slow unravelling of the world. A moment when day and night lose their boundaries and collapse into a single breath. When direction dissolves and humanity forgets where it stands. Time loosens its grip. Space forgets its shape.  In that hour, man will begin to speak languages he has never learned, utter sounds older than memory itself. He will see beyond the limits of his eyes, hear frequencies never meant for human ears. Perception will stretch, fracture, expand—until meaning itself trembles.  And in that unsettling clarity, where fear and wonder merge, the truth will no longer hide. It will rise—not in light, but in t...
Post a Comment
Read more