This world-
The one that I call mine is the only world that gives meaning to me.
Or else it wouldn’t be mine.
This world is also the world I can define myself within the bounds of my language and find expression through the sense I get from it.
The moot here, then, is to figure out what makes this world mine and how so?
From the cave of deceptive opinions (Plato) to the dark wood of spiritual self-forgetting (Dante), to the corrupting influence of society (Rousseau), and finally to the natural consciousness of phenomenology (Hegel), I have found my expressions within a coordinated context of how I have understood the reality in its core and in its cover.
I have failed many times to acknowledge how some unspecified context can take over the grounding of all my understanding that rolls out to my world where sensemaking is silenced by the supersession of its opposite-the nonsense making.
What, then, is Sense and what is Nonsense?
And what parameters do I use to intercede their difference.
The world I sense doesn’t singularly and noumenally appear to me, but it does somehow appear. The world comes to me within a context and is mediated by a slew of unsuspecting forces. My anthropomorphic sensibilities are tailored within its biological bounds and constrained by the mental suppleness- without which, the actual world out there is just a benumbed gaze.
That world… The world that does not phenomenologically reveal to me and to which I am blindfolded dwells on the other side of my Sense, viz my Nonsense.
So, what exactly is my relationship to my Nonsense?
What is my relationship to this thing that I do not know, the thing that comes to me as a stranger, takes a toll on my human fragility and kills my God.
‘Nonsense’ as such is that which I know not of, and to which I can attribute no meaning.
I do not possess the predicates to sustain its meaning. Neither do I inherit a belief that can sustain its logical forthgoing.
Regardless, my Nonsense still has a life of its own because it gazes at me in all of its flamboyance and leaves me barren without the meaning I can ascribe to my world. It glares upon my sensibility with a sneer that emanates out of an unfamiliar place. It sits atop its privileged predicates of which I have no access to because it falls outside the purview of my sensemaking.
Nonetheless, my Nonsense is very dear to me because it offers me what my Sense does not tell me. It ascribes to the possibility of a world that is not mine. This inversion is sated in its core while sustained and carried over by my homelessness.
The question to ask then is the one that cannot be answered but I will try and see how it rolls.
My Nonsense, in all of its clamors and shrills cannot, and will never define for me the context of my life. That’s because how I live through my day and move ahead depends on the foundation that is only familiar to me.
I shall not use an unknown predicate to give meaning to my subject unless I know how that predicate tethers and holds on to my subject.
And that is why when I try to make sense of my world through my Nonsense, I fall short because the pail doesn’t offer the totality of the world that belongs to me.
It, however, only gives me a peek into my own capabilities or lack thereof.
It defines not what’s out there, but it informs me of the limits that offer me that peek.
And that, in essence, is why my Sense is nothing but the construal of my capabilities.
The language that makes my world viable, the human mind that plays the role of a conduit and the supersensible forces that tie together the meaning for me fall within the realm of my Sense.
The converse of that is when the language fails me, or my mind clots in its way into the world I call mine.
This is exactly where my Nonsense inhabits.
Either way, both my Sense and my Nonsense are mine to have.
They make my world and yet they are apart.
Without one the other is no more.
And with both together, they make me complete.
