Is there advantage or education in analyzing the memes that ricochet and collide in the cold vacuum of space (between my two floppy ears)? Advantage? No. Education? Hardly. Amusement, distraction? Profound and welcome.
Think of the psyche as broken, as shards of shattered pottery in an ancient trash heap, the residual evidence of another place and time. Long past purpose, scattered among the rest of the garbage, the pieces are dis-integrating. This is a good thing--ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that rot--the dissolution of self, of being. This is the inevitability that all of life's actions (and in-actions) are a rehearsal for. To die gracefully, peacefully, artfully is the only goal. Wherever one is able to embrace this sensibility--effortlessly, in the midst of of the river of time--one is able to transcend, to flow, to live. I defy the notion (and it is no more than a notion) that the past persists and the future pervades. This is not fact, it is formula. When one trades in history and ambition, one loses the self. Then, at least in moments, one can approach the goal of living (quietly) in the present.
Identity and ego are only assemblages of words, collages of ideas that give the individual shape and definition. The meaning derived from a constellation of memes is the epoxy, a neurotic glue, for reconfiguring the fragile ceramics of human origins. And just as pottery reveals clues of cultural pride and variation, the substance of the glue--its recipe--hints at both animal instinct and divine emulation. And it is our humanity that loathes the suggestion of either.
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