Existentialists on the Authentic Self through Mathematical Parallels

The existentialists would beg to differ. Your rant on how you want to manifest the most authentic version of yourself is rather absurd to them. The fact that that authentic version exists external to whatever you are manifesting now. Or even if that authentic self is stages away from the current you, an almost asymptotic value.

The existentialist streak bought more than individualism to us for it implied that there is nothing that is set beforehand. There are no givens. No set formulae or equations to which we insert or adjust our values and variables. That we are given mere ideas floating in the plasma of the universe and it is up to our animus to take these colors and formulate a unique frequency. That we create the equation we wish to solve for the entirety of our lives. That we create who we are, rather than eventually become it. That rather than approaching a value on a graph, we are constantly adding more values to the function twisting and turning between quadrants and axes.

Similarly, we are not slowly shifting our sine functions; our current personas, to approach the cosine function; our “most authentic self.” But rather we are a cosine function in the making. Unpredictable and changing, and most likely as far off from the predictions of a cosine hitting 1 at 2pi.

Pair Production

A final poem about love,

It dies,

At the same time another one,
flourishes;
it is the beautiful
but
natural
symphony

of

conjugates.

interspersed

vomit surges up through my throat

the taste of midnight butter biscuits and afternoon apple juice are interspersed within one another bringing back a recollection of both moments

and then the destruction of the fragment of time between them

the tarnishing of my sense of everything

with respect to time

I can only differentiate how fast I’m falling through nothingness

I can only integrate the region in which I’m slowly losing myself

becoming the definition of emptiness in not even becoming anything

did you see how the sunflowers bend towards the sun? I always feared that one day their necks would break, their stems would fall apart, their lives would shatter, and they would slowly wilt as their yellow scathes breathing carbon dioxide turning all colors to smudged grey

this is how I feel around you constant bending in your presence, and almost as soon as I am about to fall and shatter, you fade, gone as the night’s stars shine and I soon become rectified, rectilinear, alive and awaiting tomorrow’s bending with enthusiasm oblivious to the pain of almost breaking my neck, tilting towards your light

I wish it was falling, I really do, because then my soul would be purged of the almost-pain, and everything would be so definitively black, I would find some comfort? and what comfort is that, another voice, another replica, another shriek, another echo that still hopes to be alive, the instinct within me, to stay, even if bending and tilting better than to have fallen

but there’s beauty in the dead,

but there’s nothing alive in them,

there’s tragedy in the sunlight,

but there’s no death in pain,

and there is me,

but there is no you within me.

Ticks

It happened one day when I was overworked and overwhelmed with too many details and too many striking clock hands. And when I rested my elbow upon the rough grey surface of the table, I saw it. A surge. Moving me noticeably. This was not a hallucination. This was not my mind playing with my reality; a bending I was familiar to.

Voltage runs through bone marrow.

I remember continuously finding the energy between my hands. Fast movements, I was always a ball of glowing enigma. Something so mysterious yet so accurate. Movements so determined in defying the slowness of nature.

But this was different; it started without willingness. It came out of nowhere or rather the accumulation of everything. Like the leftover food that never seemed to go away, this motion struck me and left me hanging in constant movement for the following ninety minutes. Never stopping once, but never exhibiting any pattern.

Numbers to stretched apart, it felt like I was weaving in the most infinite of the larger infinity of a pattern who’s familiarity appeared so far into the numbers. But it must’ve been a pattern; this is a design, it doesn’t fall short or fall empty of being.

 

Existence

Does something exist if there is no one to acknowledge it’s existence? As inspired from this TED Ed video: Is Math discovered or invented: “If there is a number of trees but no one is there to count them, does that number exist?”