/lit/ - Literature

Sometimes it seems as if there is nothing but rational and irrational, and the irrational can be explained in terms of perversions of the rational. For example, if I were to say a triangle has four sides, we could use the rational to explain that this is a misconstruction of a triangle. Because we know what a side is, and can say that there are 3 instead of 4. Likewise, any time we try to create a surreal thought, it can be constructed only in terms of the rational. It still has shape, color, size, it is almost as though it is impossible to escape from the rational.

Likewise, in trying to construct the surreal, it can only be explained as perversions of the rational, explained through the rational. Otherwise there is just mental static, if one cannot explain things through the rational or irrational. This is what happens when one does not know how to explain anything, and simply tunes out their faculties to focus only on more immediate rationalities.

Of course, one could protest that what many people call rational is not really rational, and human beings are limited to a human skewed perspective of their perception, rendering all human perception absurd. However, this view I reject prima facie, because Hume tried to say that there is no uniformity to perception, and Kant proposed the a-priori. To reject uniformity in the universe would be to reject truth, and then you get Donald Trump. I say prima facie because it is an inductive statement, and induction can only be strong or weak. But it is the strongest inductive inference a person can make, to say that there is uniformity to the world outside their heads.

This bothers me because I wonder how there can ever be anything truly interesting which will not be simply assimilated into the litany of facts about the world. The universe is extraordinary to the inquisitive, and dull and boring to the uninquisitive. However, in this dichotomy of inquisitive and uniquisitive, the inquisitive needs to keep collecting facts about the world which become mundane upon their careful curation, and placement upon the mantle of consciousness. Like trophies, like a collection of interesting artifacts.

The collection is satisfying insomuch as it sustains moments of satisfaction and fulfillment, but one is left with only a sum of facts about the world.

I’ve found in my brief attempts at trying to write fiction, I found that there was nothing I’ve said that hasn’t been said elsewhere, or better. If I try to write something which twists the conscience like an MC Escher painting, then I might wind up simply confusing the reader and leaving them with nothing but their assortments of rational (or irrational, depending on the person), categorizations of my irrationality. But if I could construct a maddening enough aesthetic paradox off juxtaposed descriptions, perhaps only in my dreams, I could crack the dichotomy between rational and irrational, and simply eliminate their consequences; boredom and fascination.