STRIPTHƎSIS2023.001 The depravity of our senses has led us into a rampant search for the unknown within ourselves. What drives us to be better? What makes a purpose purposeful?

This is a reflection on the unknowable, in which our true spirit lays out the route for the discovery of pathways to success that extend beyond what we thought was possible to be physically surmised.

In the physical world, tangibility is a serious matter. And even though it’s easy to forget (ironically, I might add) that this perception of subjects and objects has its virtuoso beginning within the deepest rooms inside our human brain, we keep being reminded of this nurtured truth, time and again, a great many times by accident, if there is such a thing.

One wonders and limps ahead, then: how do we figure success as a tangible effect? By how many hyped-up products we’re able to showcase on our cool socials? The togetherness that comes from personal realization, which in turn originates from false premises, trumped up “success theories” fed by loosely ionised new age dopamine, lasts as long as bi-yearly trends that settle on the fastest horse to come out to the tracks, rather than the first to finish the race.

We cannot expect to live up to our own childhood expectations if we keep pursuing every vanity-led impulse that shamefully rings through that windowless black mirror we’re so addicted to, scrumptious yet finite. Is today the day? Maybe tomorrow another new colour will arise, shifting our platonic feelings towards another card, that of the Joker, perhaps.

I write as if I’m a blameless victim of my own neo-crime, for I know I’m the first to celebrate when the horse steps inside the mighty terrain, ready for another day of racing. I know this, too well, unfortunately.

I do not consider myself to be in a position where I’m too late to look at the time, to wonder about the mystical meaning of “what if it works?”, nor the wrong questions, such as “is this time-wasting yet again?”, scare me anymore.

To be alive is to be a professionally dedicated time waster, no more no less. You have to waste time to be able to enjoy it, to use it, you have to see it escaping through your fingers, never to return again, to feel its inherent value. No other earthly way will time be worth something other than echoing ticking clocks in an empty piano room.

All we have to do is summon up the courage to get inside that old room, open the piano (not before dusting it), and play that infinite game of musical chairs that naturally flows from that brain you once called your soul.

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