I cannot shake the feeling that whatever I end up doing or making, the real purpose of it all is to feed me opportunities for hammering out a philosophy. I’ve noticed this assumption in the background of my plans and choices. I think it is always there.

*

In everything anyone produces, I feel a philosophy.

When we make things, including sentences, we place them within a sense of everything that is uniquely one’s own. This silent and pregant sense of everything* is philosophy, which even the most articulate philosophizing can only indicate. Any earnest attempt to pursue this indicated thing is bound to change the pursuer’s own philosophy, and this is the point of life as I know it. Philosophy cannot possess sophia — so it learns to want something better and more fitting for a bit of infinity.

In art, where apprehension succeeds in comprehension’s failure, I look through locked gates toward transcendent homes I will never inhabit, and being a mystic at heart, I love that. Where others attend to home life, I like looking out, as far as I can, past blue into black distance felt by my eyes like my feet feel the ocean’s floor when the water is unfathomably deep. Should I feel a philosophy out there or down beneath? Whether or not I should, I do, and this helps me feel who is behind who I am.

(* Note: This silent and pregnant sense of everything, which is one’s philosophy (or is it sophia? or that strange third being love produces that we call marriage?) — I will indicate it the best I can as a whatness behind every what, a howness behind every how, and a whyness behind every why. We do not know these beings directly, even in ourselves. We know by them, through them, and we are them.)