The Scientific Outlook or the Well Defined

An Existential Perspective

1.     The Omnipresence of Instrumentality

I do not know what Science means. This is purely in a static sense. But I do know what it is that I am referring to in the ontological sense and also in the linguistic sense. I shall take up the condition of the existence of Science from the position of the latter. Enough has been said about Science, so why broach the subject? Science seemingly needs a particular kind of outlook on which it thrives for its existence. One of the many features of Science is that it is a medium to describe reality and the facets of perception including perception itself. One of the many features of the scientific outlook is its neutrality for which it is celebrated. It is as one thinks, imperative that an outlook of neutrality would aid in seeing and perceiving objects as they are and not as they would be if colored by distortions. This presents a problem. What does one mean by ‘as it is’ or ‘as they are’? Well, it may be suggested that ‘as they are’ implies truth signified. If there are two objects, say a pen and a paper how do they relate to each other? Knowing fully well what the function of a pen is, you write on paper anything that you want to. This is how the two are related as conceptual functionality materialized in actuality. You can also suggest that if the pen had no ink nothing would materialize on paper. So whatever you wanted to do with the pen on paper remains in your head. To say it, does not concern you. If you fill the pen with ink you are bringing in another object without which nothing would materialize. Now the pen and paper are useless to each other without ink. If instead of the pen you have a pencil the situation would get even more complicated because you are bringing along with it led and eraser. What this suggests is that to see an object as it is or scribble or write what you want to would depend on the potency of the instruments without which nothing can be measured or observed.

When you wish to describe distant objects like planets or stars the instruments that you wish to use will be difficult to procure and further more they would be more complicated in their mechanisms and hence difficult to operate.

Even a simple feature like neutrality is hard to come by when looked at in this manner. Again we are talking about this perception when we imply that there are different manners of observation. I will not go into the nuances of manners of observation. Instead I will come back to the pen and the paper case and illustrate that there are so many contributing factors for the pen to be able to be instrumental in the activity of writing, drawing or doodling. When you observe this aspect of how a pen is made to relate to a paper, you cannot help notice how every entity that contributes to the activity is an instrument one way or the other. But then this omnipresence of instrumentality can falter when one of the elements becomes dysfunctional. 

If you gift your friend with an antique jar then the jar has to be in good condition. He has to not only observe it but also relish it and his observation of it, shouldn’t he? If he has to thank you he has to be able to correspond with you, he has to be able to correspond with you for his thankfulness to reach you.  To study all these processes one needs the outlook of neutrality that Science also needs. But neutrality is impervious to its own virtuosity.  So, deliberating on it is just to gain access to an instrument and be part of an instrumentality that would complete an activity. You are not coming back to the case of the pen and paper because you might as well look up to the skies and study the clouds. It would be abysmal to harp on the relationship between two objects when there are more elements that warrant study. Then what does this lead to? – A perplexed state where you cannot help but acknowledge principles.

The observation, that entities are instrumental to an activity, is a principle of instrumentality. From neutrality we have moved to instrumentality. Bring the case of the pencil and paper; you are automatically bringing in lead and eraser. The pencil shares a tacit relationship with an eraser which is automatic and yes indeed science studies tacit relationships that are automatic. But what does it mean to be automatic? – To be as a result of being. This is a rather absurd definition because we know the existence of a clock. Suppose the clock in your room falls down and breaks then would time stop? It would not because time is independent of the clock as a phenomenon. It does not share any tacit relationship with this object. You relate to time through the clock which helps you gauge your schedules. Without the clock you still know there is time. You do not know what time it is. This is a case where time as a phenomenon is automatic but you are dropped from its pragmatic significance. If you have an appointment with a doctor two hours from the time your clock broke then you are at a loss pragmatically. The reason is that you are literally dropped by the carriage of time although you know that it will continue to move automatically. The question is the rate at which it would move. You also know at whose expense. This is a morbid case of losing touch with an instrument of measurement. See how it would alter your predicament. This is what being automatic is about- to be as a result of being.

If you notice this 'automaticity' of any phenomenon you would notice that the hold you have on this phenomenon is limited by your capacity to measure and derive significance from that phenomenon. Significance is a tricky issue and you must be spared its consequence and ambivalence. It is a consequence because you may not be able to keep up your appointment. It is ambivalence by virtue of it having dropped you from its carriage. It is not within the scope of this essay to enumerate the features of this carriage. Your access to the instrument is the key to measuring the object of observation. You may engage with it to perform an activity. 

The bus may drop you somewhere or your flight may pick you up at a certain time. But that is irrelevant as long as your pragmatic purpose is served. We have yet another feature of the scientific outlook called pragmatism. The bus serves as an instrument of pragmatism. Reaching a particular place at a particular time helps you minimize the drifting away from an activity. If your dentist calls you to pull your tooth at a particular time and you miss the appointment. Your tooth will be spared but so will your toothache. A toothache is not worth living to die another day for. This is a context which has shrunk the framework of time to optimize the acting out of an activity. Crude as it may seem the measurement is only to enable an activity. By its accuracy and ability to measure it, it appears to prove that this approach is correct which is typical of pragmatism. The feature of pragmatism spearheads technology from a utilitarian stand point. A calendar is our way of measuring time. It is this feature of pragmatism that deters the existent from understanding what time really is.

I will explain how measurement is only a human way of measuring experience and not the only way of measuring it. Whatever science attempts to measure, define and understand be it an object, pattern or phenomenon is only a measurement of the predicament of the scientist. I will elucidate ‘the treadmill trap’ of the scientist in my next blog.

    

Post-'Insane Logician' Annotation

The rebel is the one who experiences 'ennui' when he finds out the limitations of the existing system. What is worse is that the department of philosophy is closed to newer ways of thinking and newer systems of logic. This so called outlier realizes that the existing frameworks have led to a poverty of imagination among the authorities and society in general. They do not even know the essence of what 'everything' or 'nothing' is as a result language has become a useful tool to spread exploitation and confusion. 'Mad' is the rebel who points out the limitations of the three part syllogism. There can never be anybody. There can only be somebody, nobody and mad. Somebody is a respectable individual who follows instructions without asking illegitimate questions.He is more able to tolerate 'nobody' as nobody does not threaten him. This is why he laughs along with nobody after it is claimed that only nobody is perfect. Mad points out the hypocrisy in the argument and suggests that it would not matter if he admonishes nobody as nobody does not exist and he should rightly not retaliate as he has no value in life. Somebody makes it worse by calling the outlier mad as a result of his perception and mad admonishes somebody and not just anybody. Anybody does not exist as a result of the constraints of language. Reality and truth are not relevant. This rebel is the one who is trying to bring about a paradigm shift by contributing to his field. He gets rejected on account of being a path breaker. He is the misunderstood contributor; the terminal outlier.

Insane Logician

There is a well known joke about somebody, nobody and mad. I don't think it is just a joke.

Let me explain this through the following construct.

There are three types of people in this world:

1. Somebody
2. Nobody
3. Mad

'Mad' was seriously studying classical logic and innovating new syllogisms when the existing one became an obstacle to intellectual progress. Mad recognized this but the professors said that the existing systems are enough to understand everything. Furious he told two of his friends (''Nobody and 'Somebody') that the existing systems are not 'everything' as they don't explain 'nothing'.

Nobody said, 'The only statement that is correct is 'Nobody is perfect, I am nobody'. Both of them laughed hysterically.  Mad did not take that too kindly. He retorted, "As you are nobody I see nothing next to me and I am just going to beat you as I would be beating nobody." Somebody said, "You are mad and the person you are beating is nobody. I am the only one who is somebody."

Mad said, "Then I am going to beat somebody and not just anybody".


That's three part syllogism for you.

Are you mad, nobody or somebody?

Garfield’s Charitable Critic

Cartoons have in them embedded so much life, much more than what meets the eye. What about Garfield? Does he just belong to the animation world or is he a figment of the blessed lazy mind of the real world? Let’s face it. We feel the way Garfield does in times of distraught conclusions drawn from the undesirable experiences of our lives. We can’t be Garfield forever because of the flashes of hope and optimism that energize us into action. Optimism and pessimism are parts of the vicious circle that one is inclined to call life. So what is one to do when experience controls the traffic of mankind? You may simplify your predicament by saying that when you hit low you would take up reading Garfield comic strips to take refuge in cynicism. When you feel energized you can choose to be active. But Garfield will tell you, it’s not that simple. Garfield’s way of life is very difficult to imbibe because for one you need an extraordinary sense of humour that is cynically bent and you need to maintain your cynicism even in times that tempt the normal man into optimism. So you need to sleep not only when there is little hope but also when life is beautiful. It is what Garfield would call the approach of one-sided equanimity.
Having your food on the plate presents a problem for sure for Garfield will eat it. There is no uncertainty there. Not only will Garfield continue to put on weight, you will thank your lucky stars for losing yours. But Garfield will be quick to point out that you are starving and remind you that starving is a pain not worth the substitution. Solution to this menace could be to introduce another pet named Odie. You will begin to learn that being Jon is by far the easiest job on earth. Jokes apart the two pets are among the most lovable characters in comic literature. They will make you smile for a while so that you relax. Garfield will want to see you relax. You may be on the brink of finding the most penetrative answers to the most mind boggling questions but Garfield has no ear for them. Garfield is not seeking. You then learn from him that the end of seeking is the beginning of enlightenment. You cannot hopefully turn to Odie because his ears are deaf to all your phrases. He will simply duck and let your phrases blow above his head.
That Garfield would like Mornings better if they started later epitomizes a great irony. There is the natural in the irony for morning represents routine, rush and discipline and obviously some of us who do not fit in the established order at all too well will wish for it to start much later or to never start in the first place. This is ironic for if it were the case then mornings are not mornings. We would have to assign a different label. The wit Garfield employs very often is on these lines. He plays more with both linguistics and logic. It is this trait that makes Garfield unintentionally creative. Garfield has a non-verbal rapport with Jon and other friends around. Although it is non-verbal it makes for a solid union or relationship. The absurd pranks that he continues to play on the idiosyncrasies of Jon and others may be interpreted to be attempts to get the reader to spot the pitfalls of seriousness and the illusion of sincerity. Garfield may be sardonic but he is never too slow to track Jon’s psychology.
Garfield has no real hopes of Jon getting a date but it is as though he passes pessimistic remarks to get Jon to prove him wrong. Odie is not spared either but Garfield gets practical with Odie because Odie lacks sophisticated communication. All his jokes are action oriented without too much energy spent on sarcastic commentary of which he is the master, no doubt. Garfield gets stimulated by visuals and converts them into witty verbal enterprise, a rare trait at the cost of perennial inactivity. He does not face many situations but within the limited range of his exposure, he gets you digging at the lighter side of life which is incidentally the caustic side of it. The settings are simple and punch lines are quick without time to think in between lines and when he finishes what he has to think, you just begin to laugh or chuckle, so Garfield gives you no time for confrontation.
So when you feel lonely, low and disappointed with the way life is turning out for you, it would be a rewarding idea to have a pet like Garfield who reminds you that life is just too precious to be spent without sleeping. He is a different cat as you will observe, different from all other cats so life’s debacles are miniscule when compared to the pranks and antics of the one and only “Garfield”.

By Ajay Seshadri

The Man in a Shroud

One afternoon I passed by a station and heard someone call out my name from behind. It was an old acquaintance. I was surprised he recognized me. Instantly I remembered who he was. He had not changed in appearance. It was 8 years before when we studied together in a class. I do not wish to delve into the circumstances of our acquaintance. Strange to see how time had relieved the two of us from the strain of the pressures of the academic days of high school. He even gave me his visiting card and threw light on some radical choices he had made with respect to his career. Considering those times my memories of him were certainly contradicted to a large degree.

Years passed by and I did not see him afterwards.

I had been busy trying to discover if there was any inscription hidden in a monument. This occupied my time. Groping in the dark my passion remained ignited by the thrill of a possible breakthrough all the same. Much to my disappointment I did not find any inscription but as I left the hallway a coat fell on my shoes. I shuddered to think there was somebody else in the monument. I put aside the coat and left through the dark passage till I got out. The monument was indeed cut off from the rest of the world, remote in every sense of the word.

I thought that I had a reasonably good chance of finding the inscription which would have validated some of the claims made by a researcher of the name Ashok, who I happened to get acquainted with; the raison d etre for our acquaintance being we shared a common idea and I vouched for his singular preoccupation. The inscription was a document by a rationalist who wanted to prove that the monument belonged to a community “Vapas” who were forced to vacate it on grounds of being irreligious. This was hidden in the monument itself according to Ashok and the irony was that no one was able to find it till date.

The belief that the monument was the house of God would be mistaken but the rationalist was not able to prove it. Ashok wanted to take up this challenge and prove it. Till any evidence was found one way or the other, the monument would belong to no one. The name of the rationalist, I cannot reveal because he did not permit me or Ashok to do so. As to why this monument was believed to be 'the house of God' I shall explain herewith. 

In 2000 AD, when there were tragedies in many places, this monument provided shelter to scholars who lost debates. They were in hiding because they did not comply to a cruel condition of the debate they took part in. The condition was that if they were to lose the argument they would have to leave the town or they would have to jump into the river. These scholars knew that losing an argument is not tantamount to being wrong necessarily. The defeat may simply imply that they did not argue well. I tend to agree with this because articulation skills vary which by themselves have nothing to do with what is correct. You may lose an argument and still not be convinced by the other party. However, the scholars agreed to the terms which were preposterous. Subject to defeat incidentally, they were in trouble. The “Vapas” received them in their home which well resembled a dingy version of a palace. It was clean no doubt but it suffered from an acute lack of lighting. In their house they took shelter continuing to practice what they believed in. Later on the “Vapas” community tried to increase their number but their ways were not popular. There were some rulers who found them irreligious because they never prayed; they never worshipped any gods. They were quite docile and faded in number gradually. When the other natives no longer tolerated them despite their generosity, they left the country. A myth prevailed that there is a Vapa still living in the monument.

The scholars and refugees who gained freedom later on helped spread the name of the monument without making any reference to the Vapas. This was to express a token of their gratitude in silence. The monument was known as 'the house of God' as its origin was unknown. The rulers supposedly banished the last of the Vapas from the monument. Ashok wished to prove the bitter irony of the situation. It was their own house that they were forced to leave.

“It is alarming what research can reveal” Ashok said. “This is why people such as I are not allowed to have a voice.” A voice barred from being heard stifles the spirit that canvases its being with life. The researcher is an entitled grave digger as much as you and I. It is quite simply a matter of passion. The one who emerges from the sweet deceit of paradise runs away from a truth brushed aside as invalid on grounds of prejudice no more than a bird that attempts to fly away from its own shadow mistaking it for threat.

Just as I was having a long conversation with Ashok, we heard a loud noise outside our premises. It hurt the vocal chords more than I would like to have you believe. My friend who did not appear as perturbed followed me outside. A curfew prevailed and we did not feel an uneasy eagerness to find out the reasons for the same. We wished to head back. “Let us go back. It must be some needless commotion.” Before I could turn back, Ashok was distracted by his neighbour’s broken window. I chanced to see the day break when a lady in a shroud ran across the road past the scene into a vacant avenue beyond which she was seen no more. In wonder over the strange distraction that befell us my friend with renewed curiosity interrogated the constable in command over the commotion, “Sir, what happened?” He replied duty-bound, “Apparently, a sacred document has been stolen.” In matters such as these it would not be too much of a coincidence if our anxiety felt invited. For obvious reasons I pushed further, “what is this sacred document about?” Pat came the phlegmatic reply, “the inscription regarding the monument of the Vapas”.

“Could that lady who ran across the road have had anything to do with it?” I doubted. Ashok adjoined, “Do you remember where she was headed?”- “I could not see. It seemed like she was headed straight past the avenue but what was bizarre was that no one around noticed.” “This was more distracting”. “We need to get the inscription, Tunap.” “I am not quite sure if that lady had anything to do with it at all, if that is what you are suggesting.” “Of course not Ashok, it is hard to tell but ...”

Suspicion has its ways of reminding us of possibilities we cannot rule out. Suspicion indeed makes of a man a surgeon even if he desires to forgo paranoia for peace of mind. Peace good friend, once lost to suspicion can be recovered only by exhausting every possibility, however insignificant or trivial. To say the least, we were set out to do exactly that.

We parted with my words for the evening, “Let us break for now till tomorrow brings us a new road. The inscription is stolen and I shall make further enquiries. Till then do not let agitation mar your sleep.” Let me know of any inputs that you may get.”

I tried to unravel this mystery of the stolen inscription through an agent but without much help from luck. Late at night around 1.40 AM, I got a call from Ashok. “Tunap, I saw her.” –The same lady. – “Yes but I could not see her face.” “She left some cover in a drop box and left.”-“Ashok, how do you know if it was the same lady.” Tunap replied overdosed, “I just know. Come here at once. Do I have something to share with you! I cannot reveal further. Be here at once.” With these words he hung up. So much for suggestion!

I went to his place in disguise. The street was absolutely quiet. The deafening silence surrounding the avenue gave the night sky a visible air which when subject to detail stimulated the classic syn-esthetic effect akin to a parallel universe. I waited and waited. When my patience threw me a mirage, I retained just about enough sense to realize the illusion of my depleting consciousness. It was 2.15 AM. The door opened when behind it Ashok showed me inside. He turned on the lights in his study room and on doing that I could see an expression I do not remember having seen in my life. “I was at the counter. After a few minutes I found the drop box broken. Here is the cover with a letter.”

The letter read as follows:

It may seem surprising to you that I have observed your interest well before you even took notice of me. It is said that there are no coincidences particularly considering what familiarity can do to bring distant individuals to a common ground. You may not be aware, gentlemen but truth is never what it seems. The inscription that you have been searching for is with me. Meet me at the frill zone tomorrow at half past one. You will find me very easily.

I am,

The Man in a Shroud.

“It seems like it wasn’t a lady after all, does it Tunap”.  –“Not necessarily, it could also be a deliberate ploy to confuse us. In any case, it is the same person. We should meet this ‘man in the shroud’. We decided to leave for frill zone the next day as directed. Ashok rushed to the study room where he popped in Valium, one after another. Undoubtedly, he had spent sleepless nights. I left him to return in 8 hours; we left for the place and there we saw one sitting in the corner in a shroud. The person got up and secretly walked away. We followed him to a bar just next to the frill zone. It was hard to believe it was a man as his body was shapeless. The shoulders were not broad. There was no definition in the structure. He also walked with grace and did not take strides. We sat down, table for three. For a few minutes we were quiet waiting for him to break the silence which he eventually did. In a shrill voice he said, “I am not what you think I am. In no mood for introductions, I shall get to the point straightaway. During the Second World War the medical fraternity of the emergency units looked out for injured soldiers in the battlefield. They reached no man’s land and found this.” He took out a black and white photograph. We could make out a wounded person who neither looked like a soldier nor like a human being. 

“Strange...It looks like...” “- right?” adjoined our mysterious companion. “It is in fact a being from outer space, 4 light years away from the milky way galaxy.” We for one moment found it hard to believe him, as expected I suppose. We could not deny that the photograph was real with Ashok being adept at judgement. 

“Yes, it looks unusual, alright. Why are you showing this to us? What has this got to do with the inscription?” The man replied, “You won’t understand the text inscribed anyway. It is in Pali. You probably know that it was widely studied in the past. We Vapas continued to use it as a form of communication even after it became practically dead. You see, we adopted this language when we came to planet earth. We have been here for centuries. We don’t have any gender. I am the only surviving Vapa. This person you see in the photograph was what you humans would identify as my ‘stepfather’. I used to call him my master. The monument belongs to us. We built it out of the tools that we procured on our own. We gave shelter to the Buddhist scholars when they needed our help. They in turn taught us Pali and the ways of your world. We managed to get by with the help of their lessons. Being few in number, we faded away over time. My master was killed in World War 2 and I am the only one remaining.” We were completely struck in amazement and intrigue and we listened motionless. “I have spoken enough. I shall give you the inscription anyhow. With these words I shall take leave gentlemen.” The person handed out the inscription to Ashok and got up. “Wait!” cried Ashok bewildered by what he had heard but this being left saying, “there is no waiting for me.”

We took the photograph and the inscription and left the place without a clue as to what to believe in any more.

‘Another night, how am I going to get through this’ was the thought that preoccupied Ashok. Restless in bed, he turned from one position to another till he stood up and looked at the clock which indicated quarter past twelve. He would have to see the passage of time through yet again. He walked up to the windows and spread out the curtains to one side. He observed the night in all its glory, clueless. You would know this feeling, I am sure.

He shut his eyes gently. All of a sudden someone knocked from outside the window. He opened his eyes to see a young girl calling out to him, “Take me away from this world, sir”. Ashok astounded tried to open the window but the girl vanished before he could do so. He thought he was hallucinating and for all things out of the ordinary he had only one solution. He moved in jerks towards the cupboard, opened it and latched on to a container of valium. He swallowed two pills and went back to bed. Just when he was about to find his sleep, it was 5.00 am. ‘How merciless time is!’ Ashok received a call. “Who is it?”- “Raymond. Ashok is that you?”- “Yes”. –“Sorry to bother you so early in the morning. I just wanted to inform you that my aunt passed away yesterday. There is a funeral today. Do come and oh before I forget bring your friend , Tunap as well.” “Alright, we will come.” Replied Ashok curtly.

       

  

I observed all this and inquired as to who called. “It is Raymond. He has called us to attend a funeral.” We were there to observe the proceedings. There was stillness all around us. Everyone in the funeral looked down. There was a loss that filled the open sky. It called out to the heavens as though the clouds were summoned to make way for a lost soul. The stillness of the air precipitated the departure but very quickly the moment was disturbed as the coffin opened up from inside. Aghast we were terrified by what we saw. The dead body struggled its way from horizontality to verticality. I was certain it was our man in the shroud. Before any of us could do anything, he ran away. In utter shock some fainted, some ran away into their cars and drove off the scene. We sought to chase this man but we couldn’t keep pace with him. Ashok knew that he was headed towards the bridge and ran in a different direction to stop him from one end. I managed to trace him to the bridge. As I had calculated I was at one end of the bridge. The man was in the middle of the bridge and Ashok caught up to him from the other end. The man took out a torch. Ashok couldn’t come near for the light was too bright. He just yelled, “Stop, we are not going to hurt you. What were you doing in the place of Raymond’s aunt? Don’t run away. We will believe you.” 

The man in the shroud gradually uncovered his face. What we saw was not a human being but a creature that resembled the one in the photograph. We finally realized that this being helped suspend our disbelief without volition. I could not proceed as the torch emitted light towards me as well. It was almost like focussed sunlight sans pervasiveness. There was some music in the background and an object appeared in the sky resplendent with colours from whatever little I could make out. Like a shooting star this being disappeared leaving us unconscious.

Kentucky Hospital, Ward 301

Raymond and a detective were seen talking to a doctor.

Raymond:  I need to speak to the two men. Are they alright?

Doctor: I am afraid not so. You cannot speak to them as both are suffering from acute amnesia.

Pankaj (the detective): I believe they witnessed something extraordinary. Tunap had sent a message to me while the event was happening. I came to speak to the witnesses regarding that.

Doctor: What exactly did they witness?

Pankaj showed the doctor a black and white photograph.

He said: They spoke to the step son of this person. Does the person in this photograph resemble anyone or anything you have ever seen in this planet, doctor?

Doctor: Where is his step son? What is this all about?

Raymond: Wait...What is this creature?

Pankaj: If the two men do manage to recover doctor, please ask the researcher, Ashok to contact me immediately. I was told by somebody to return this photograph to him. He said he found it in the bridge when the two men fainted in shock. I like what I see. Please do the needful.

Doctor: Who gave this photograph to you?

Pankaj: A lady in a shroud.

The End

    

     

The Conversion of Loneliness

I took a battery with me but it was without charge. It reminded me of a man without spirit; a cold blooded wreck. The only reason most men live is to please other people with impressions. Once the impression dies out you are to face your self. Then you see yourself alone. The questions that you had buried come alive again. It was no doubt, comforting to think all the while that these buried questions would one day turn to dust to never return again. But hope alas has its disadvantages. To hope that the answers are in the future is to kill the present. The only thing that dies is your imagination. The questions remain buried all the same. They are alive to this day to disappoint you.

I feel the same whenever my brain goes weary and my faculties lose charge like the battery. I need ideas but where do I find them? The broad daylight does nothing to help but reminds me again and again the necessary evil of rut! Where do I find that stimulant when I am blinded by the sunshine that makes me see only motion without essence; quite simply a life without purpose. I may go to a library or a museum. Isolated by the dictates of monetary pressures I decide to make way only for the cold blooded pragmatist. What does this pragmatist do? He makes me turn into him and reminds me not to indulge the whims of a lonely intellect. The intellect, he says is seldom interested in immediate pleasures but longs for permanence, the end that dare not speak its name. 

He shows me the picture of what my intellect would make of me. At the outset, I could only see a broken man with a vicious smile as though he has discovered a treasure that has only some private meaning and is absolutely of no use to the external world. It appears to me that this man that my intellect would make of me deludes himself in his pursuits of isolated recreations and concludes that he has found a new meaning to his life. At this point the pragmatist and I have moved away; disconnecting me with everything around me, I see living in the shadows as a necessary evil but I do not even consider being a pragmatist as a shadow. It is far worse!

A man who sells his sense of purpose to a distorted version of civilization is undead, no more than a puppet without even the value of a shadow. He is not dead because he is alive and he is not real because he is not himself. Mistaking this pragmatist for an individual he decides to go about his life as a routine. This decision ends up being futile when he finds himself unable to give back to this society a value worshiped beyond reconciliation. If I find myself moving in this direction I can only survive as long as I am able to create this value for a reasonable length of time in the eyes of this society. If I want this standing in society where I am no longer an individual but yet another illusion then my intellect is jeopardized and its whims however grandiose remain to attack me.

I then see this dichotomy and this 'need for the other' can survive only on a material plane if my intellect succeeds in transporting me beyond the shadows into an infinite reality called 'permanence'. This 'need for the other' is no longer a substitute for permanence. I can experience this stimulation when I cease to look into the broad daylight. The 'kick of the shadows' forces the adversary, who in his attire of pragmatism, relinquishes permanence for monotony. This shadow reveals the real image in front and he looks completely different from what I have seen of myself. The message is 'I have found it'.

This lonely man was nothing but what only the pragmatist could see and that which I could never be.