I am standing in front of this huge engine in the museum – a sign says it’s an aircraft engine. These technical, mechanical objects usually don’t speak to me at all, they just don’t raise any interest in me, especially when I read their names. Still, I approached it, without having a question about its existence, being just a functional thing without significant meaning to me.
It was really huge when I stood in front of it. It did not resonate with anything that I’m passionate about, nothing from it did inspire me. It was not beautiful in my eyes, it didn’t talk to me. I was totally ignorant of it. I didn’t care about its story, purpose, function. Still, there was a strange, peculiar fascination. Just being there in its hugeness, being a dead machine, almost unrottable, nature could never compost it. Apparently, there’s nothing that invites to connect.
I wonder, if this search for meaning, for an answer, for a story that can be told, for connection, can limit this raw and innocent fascination when you stand before “something” or “someone” you don’t understand and cannot fathom, and are maybe even not interested to understand because it doesn’t conform with the conditioned resonance patterns.
And now, just this existence is fascinating. It doesn’t need to have a name, needn’t be exciting, a journey or an adventure, neither romance nor retreat, neither fairy tale nor horror story, needn’t be any type of a story. This appears to be some kind of innocent fascination, that seems to get lost with alleged “knowledge” or “answers”, that fit into the fabricated pattern, no matter if it’s about function or purpose or (deeper) meaning?
Everything apparently has to be revealed, known, processed, understood, the drive of the seeking is strong. It wants to penetrate the mystery and harness and absorb information, might get ideas and concepts, that may or may not be called answers or insight or knowledge. Some seem to find the “truth”, the “true nature or (no)self”, or “God”, and name it “awakening”, or “enlightenment”. And utilize it, to make the apparent world a better one, the apparent self higher or transcendent.
There’s this passion for stories and patterns and repetitions and synchronicities. The brain loves them all, gets high on them, high on (it)self.
And while I stand in front of this engine, that hasn’t anything to tell me, to which I don’t feel any resonance or connection, nor have I any questions about its nature or existence, but this brain still creating stories, like this,
And I gaze at this object, with almost no interest, but utter alien fascination, and get lost at this apparent edge, where nothing can be known, matters, counts, has meaning, and even unknowing doesn’t exist.
