Is There A Point To Talking Nonsense?

Firstly there is the initial reflex-action (if we can use this reflex as a starting-off point, which strictly speaking it isn’t,of course) and then there is the transformation or trans-iteration of this original reaction into an echo, into a ripple that propagates silently through empty space. What is this echo, what is this ripple? It certainly isn’t anything real, that’s for sure. An echo isn’t real, it tells us about something that has happened it is true, but there’s no substance in it. We can’t expect substance from an echo. Could you eat the echo of a meal? Could you perhaps have a relationship with the echo of a person who lived and died a hundred years ago? Perhaps you could, but what sort of meal/relationship would that be? That’s what we have to ask ourselves, isn’t it? What sort of meal/relationship would that be?

 

First is there is the initial reaction reflex, which by its inalienable nature is a mechanical phenomenon, and then there is the forlorn echo of this rather unremarkable event, echoing dismally as it does through the weary decades that follow. Such is life, such as life. I know that the official story is somewhat different to this. Obviously the official story is somewhat different to this. We are given to understand that the initial reaction formation is something momentous, and that it will lead to great things. Could lead to great things, if everything works out for us. If we don’t get screwed over on the way. A brave start we are told, by the fools would pretend to know about these things. A brave start, a noble start, or so they say…

 

There are always fools who pretend to know about these sort of things, aren’t I? That is the job of a fool after all; that is actually in the job description of a fool – to mouth off ceaselessly about things that you don’t understand and never will. There are always jobs for fools, and plenty are glad to step up and accept it. A job is a job, I suppose, and so we shouldn’t complain. Alas, the truth of these matters is not so easy to stomach; the truth of these matters is not so easy to bear. The truth is that no matter how hard we work at it the life of an echo (of some initial mechanical events) can never turn out to be something great, something momentously wonderful. The prognosis is not good, you see. The prognosis is not exactly inspirational. What else can a ripple give rise to but more ripples? What else can an echo produce except further echoes? Further echoes of an inferior quality to the original echo, I might add. A thistle cannot give rise to a fig, as it is written, and similarly neither can a forlorn echo, resounding dismally through the empty decades, produce anything of any actual interest or substance. To believe otherwise is to misunderstand the nature of entropy, is it not?

 

There have always been plenty of fools who are delighted (if not more than delighted) to have the chance to talk nonsense to anyone who is willing to listen. My own life has been full of such fools. Yapping their damned heads off as if talking nonsense were the most important thing in the world. Perhaps it is? Perhaps I have failed – throughout the course of my miserable life – to grasp this most salient of points. Perhaps I have failed to grasp the cosmic significance talking nonsense? Someone should have explained it to me more clearly. Someone should have spelt it out to me – we’re not all so quick on the uptake, after all. Some of us are slow learners, evidently. Some of us don’t catch on too quick…

 

Is there a point to being an echo, propagating endlessly and pointlessly through empty space? I ask you this question in all seriousness. If you have an answer I will listen to you. I suspect that there might be an answer, you see. I suspect that they might be, although it will in all probability turn out to be a rather subtle one, and not therefore one that we can easily grasp. Of course there’s an answer to this question, of course there’s an answer. I’m only pretending that I don’t know what the answer is! This is what’s called a ‘literary device’, although it may not be a very good one. I’d be the first to admit that it’s probably not a very good one. The ‘point’ of this whole pointless rigmarole (that we are so hopelessly trapped in) is of course the blessing feeling of redemption that we get when realize what a waste of time it is! You might equivalently ask what the good thing about relentlessly and persistently banging your head against a wall is – the good thing about that is stopping! How sweet that feels! We should never underestimate how wonderfully good that feels….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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