Der Perspektivenschlüssel (perspektivenloses Ende)

 Samstag 21. Dezember 2024

Es war einmal ein verrückter Mann mit einer verrückten Idee. Er wollte Sinn aus einer sinnfreien Welt machen. Da überzeugte er sich, dass die Welt Sinn machte, und merkte, dass nur er den Schlüssel zur Welt in den Händen hielt. Da kam ein Wienerlein und bellte und knurrte. Es hopste und jaulte und biss in seine Hand. Da jaulte auch der Mann und vergass vor Schmerz den Schlüssel, der schnurstracks in den Bauch des Wienerls plumpste. Als er wieder aufschaute, begriff er die Welt nicht mehr. Er ging in die Stadt und kaufte sich einen nigelnagelneuen Schlüssel. "Dies ist ein Allzweckschlüssel." sagte die Verkäuferin. Seine gierigen Augen strahlten bei dieser Nachricht und sogleich versuchte er ihn an der Ladentür. Der Schlüssel zerbrach in Tausend Stücke, die Ladenverkäuferin kullerte mit den Augen und der Mann verstand die Welt wieder nicht. "Mein Schlüssel, mein Schlüssel!" rief der Mann, doch das half nicht. Er rief nach seinem alten Schlüssel und lief blind in die Richtung, in der er den Dackel vermutete. "Mein Schlüssel, mein Schlüssel!" Als er vergebens in jeder Ecke gesucht hatte, fing er zu weinerln an, sackte an einer Ecke zu Boden und schluchzte "mein Schl... men-Sch..." Kinder, die in einem Haus ohne Ecken einen Hund streichelten, hörten den Mann und begriffen, dass er um etwas Verlorenes trauerte. "Der sucht Mensch! Was sucht der für einen?" Sie gingen auf ihn zu. "Was suchst du für einen?" Einer der alles kann! Ohne ihn verstehe ich die Welt nicht! "Die Mama? Der Papa?!" dachten sie. Die Kinder zogen sich zurück bei dem Gedanken, dieser Mann habe seine Eltern verloren, weil sie die grosse Last, diesen Mann zu beherbergen, nicht ertragen konnten.

This man is desperate, desperately unlovable. He has tried to make sense of the world using some key to understanding and he failed. The key cannot be held onto because the world doesn't rationally add up. This key is a mere attitude to make sense of the world, to infuse it with meaning, where, intrinsically, none there is. Better heed Marcus Aurelius' advice: Not to be the majority, but not to be numbered among the insane. οὐ τὸ τοῦ πλήθους, ἀλλὰ τὸ μὴ συναριθμεῖσθαι τοῖς παρανοοῦσιν.

It is a luxury to stay sane whilst being vain, refusing to fill the emptiness with meaning and relying on others to give you the key. It's a luxury some can't afford. There is only so much love and patience to go around, only so much intelligence to wake and shake the sleepwalkers out of their faithful fancies. The insane become more and more unlovable and have to pay others to deal with their insanity. Vanity might get you there, make no mistake: there is always someone capable of more vanity than you without being driven mad by it. Faith might get you there: don't believe in an already pre-fabricated reality, figure it out, step by step. Be aware that you are fabricating it, yourself. When you try to use a pre-fabricated key to understanding, it will fall into a thousand pieces upon contact with the world, its pieces never again to be salvaged. You'll always be left with your own philosophy after that happens.

The only philosophy worth cultivating is your own. The only key worth having is your own. Self-reliance means having a key of your own making, doing what is meaningful by your own standards. Seeing you like this, children will by animated by your undertaking to cultivate and do the things which they find meaningful in life. A school teacher must spend time doing things meaningful to themselves, instead of being satisfied by vain things that may drive the children crazy. Seeing you like this, friends don't feel the ticking time-bomb of your insanity burdening them. They feel animated to live life to the fullest.

Many have told me, they feel inspired by my attitude toward meaning. Some have fallen in love with me as a result. Yet the fear of insanity's ticking time-bomb, the ubiquity of people periodically dropping the key and losing their shits keeps cowards clinging to their pre-fabricated keys and the reckless indulging in the dangerous game of vanity rather than facing the challenge of making meaning (together).

Bravery is not the absence of fear, it isn't overcoming cowardice by ridding oneself of fear. This has more truth to it: Overcoming cowardice is fearing approaching death more than the weight of responsibility; the very face of bravery is to carry out that responsibility without so much as a flinch or a moment's hesitation, it is a sign of love-of-life.

It takes bravery to face the world's insanity all by yourself and overcome vanity on your own and not leave the burden of meaning to mum and dad. It's easier to be brave for someone else, to overcome the emptiness of a place with beside you someone wanting to help fill it with meaning. The sheer task of it, artistically, culturally, intellectually, can be emotionally overwhelming. It physically hurts to interact with people who are insanely or vainly obtuse to this most fundamental of duties, this most basic of human needs that makes us love life and each other even more.