Experience is that which does not make sense, it is the multiplicity that is synthesised into simplicity by our understanding. But experience itself cannot ever make sense.
That is the folly of all mankind: to attempt to make sense from what does not make sense, to attempt to craft reason from what cannot come true.
And yet this folly is inevitable; our life does not consist in avoiding it. We cannot just leave reason behind. It is by definition not possible to exist where things do not make sense. And yet we do seem to have an awareness of the limits of our sense and our reason; it would appear to be here that we exist, here that our hearts can live and breathe. The is no supersession of reason, and there is no doing away with the senselessness of our lives. We must eternally struggle to make sense out of this senselessness, to make our pillows of experience, to soften the blow of raging otherness beneath our cherished reasonings and notions. And yet somehow something else seems possible; it is here, neither in reason nor in foolishness, that we find ourselves mostly, and which constitutes all the fullness of our lives.
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