I'm so sick of this sort of thing. Yet again, as with stones, and herbs, and numbers, and stars, the stench of the temporal eclipses any trace of the eternal. What meaning could colors have, when they are merely constructs of a particular language and culture? What meaning could numbers and dates and constellations have when they are such recent, and locally variable, ideas?
It is revealed that all these things are but pale narratives pasted on to eternal truths, fingers pointing at the moon, not the moon itself. The only thing that endures, immune to time, language, and culture, is the mind--the intention behind all things. This mind cannot bear to suspend disbelief and rational thought long enough to make such things work. And so, yet again I find myself in the position of having to do it my damned self. There is no crutch, no easy fix for the questions that I am asking. And I suppose I knew that all along.
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