In defence of modern-day spirituality

Somewhere deep down, I sometimes do feel the anxiety of approaching middle age. But the occasional self-portrait, though, seen through a vain lens of self-approval seems almost to disprove any progression in the passage of time.

Living in these times of deep dissatisfaction one can’t help but wonder about the act of judgment. You have first impressions come about as if a cloud opens on an otherwise severely overcast day. You step into the void of understanding and even concupiscence, and then accept things as they are. But there, at the back of the mind, there is a foreboding of a time to come when an event is but bound to occur. So, one can see an approaching stand-off, by experience, and still not fathom how it is to come about and secretly relish its non-occurrence.

Concurrently, if one is put in a certain position - that of determining the collective future experiences of a group of people - what inevitably follows, is introspection and a consciousness borne of a sense of responsibility i.e. if one is acting responsibly. But to determine the course of one’s own life… what is it but indecisiveness or a temptation to procrastinate or a growing dread at understanding whether you are consequential at all to the world at large. But if this reasoning applies to posturing in an audience then the matter is solved with little hesitancy. Are we scared of fulfilling a base expectancy of ourselves that came about sometime between adolescence and adulthood? This fear, if not disproved by other means, points to a sense of self that exists beyond the realm of the personal; an entity devoid of geographical and emotional boundary, something to look forward to and eventually beyond – a driving force, a haunting presence, a dissociated conductor. The corollary is certainly something to fear even more.

What is that sense of longing, remembrance and regret all locked into the rush of a wave of sentiment? It happens so often and sometimes so rarely that it always succeeds in disturbing the gentle pace of life. We are led on to a climax, an upliftment, a vindication… and then mediocrity and routine crash in and everything turns banal. If it was a question of absolutely enjoying every second of every minute of a life would art even begin to make sense?

Why are we so rocked by the hint of a possibility, the gentlest of waves, the most passive breeze? Are we collectively looking, searching and feeling for something every hour of every day, through success and failure, conquest and defeat?