The Human Condition

You know, I read about Modernism and Post-Modernism modes of existence. I read Beckett, I read Lawerence, I read Marquez. And because I've read all this and known what theose authors wanted to express, I analyzed how we live today (Yeah, that's what you'll do if you take up English Honours too).

I figured that we've moved away from the Post Modern way of existence. There is no celebration of our fractured identity today. We are not happy about being broken. We, as pieces, have been scattered forever. The realization struck with Modernism. People wanted to go back to thinking that they were whole, though. They did not know how to live like an unassembled jigsaw puzzle. Post Modernists, on the other hand, celebrated this kind of existence, where we are each other- different in shape, maybe, but still the same. And that was a relief. Being same. Being like everyone else.

In these times of Post- Post Modernism, I look around me and I feel that the attitude to our existence has changed drastically. We've resigned ourselves to being broken, unassembled, scattered. But it's not a very passive acceptance. When I say resignation, a certain kind of cynicism accompanies this. We recognize that we were never whole to begin with and hope is so lacking in us now that it's turned us into first class cynics.

There is lesser belief in love, God, hope. We've sort of just given up; rolled over and surrendered ourselves to the lack of goodness, wholeness in the world. Everything is tainted by dissatisfaction and sneers, as if we can see right through everything and recognize that everything we're surrounded by is as hollow as us. There is no respite from such existence- not in nature, not in God, not in anything. If there's anything that is actually believed in, it is the vices in everything.

Self confessional style of writing emerges from this way of existence (which is not the same as living anymore. We are not alive. We don't live). With pop cultural imagery and metaphors and and brutally honest statements, expression of lack becomes a dagger to our hearts and souls. It pinches our consciousness and forces us to realize the truth of life- everything is pointless. 

And I'm the part of this Post- Post Modernist human condition and I don't believe in goodness and God. But somewhere, I wish I did.