Dear readership (of whom I would expect after this amount of time to be no one...yet),
I have neglected the art of literature for far too long, and that far too long is coming to an abrupt and much needed end.
So let's cut the jib-jab and get down to brass taxes (have you filed?).
Is anything really dead? That's a good question to bring about the rebirth of this blog. Does anything really die? I think we should take a few different outlooks to answer this moral (or as you'll see not-so-moral) question.
Let's start with the religious answer, and that would be a big, millennia resounding no! Christianity claims the death of the human flesh catalyzes a transcendence of the soul to a higher (or for some naughty-naughties, lower) calling. The Kingdom of Heaven awaits those who have perished, and life perpetuates forever as a part of His eternal following. This isn't just a theme characterized in Judeo-Christian religions: Buddhism and Hinduism both preach reincarnation, ie death begins a new life. Almost all reputable world religions have a sense of an afterlife. However, that word itself, afterlife, what does that mean? If we live beyond our bodies, then why would we call this an afterlife? The word itself seems to focus on the corporeal world around us and chops it off from the rest of the ethereal realms. Perhaps continued life would be better than afterlife. I mean, if the focus is on what lies beyond, then shouldn't that be the perspective we take, not this feeble human form? But etymo-ideologies aside, according to religion, no, nothing is really dead.
On (what shouldn't be) the other hand, science, too, does not believe in death as an end all be all. Everything is in a cycle. Similar to the Buddhist belief of rebirth, science is a way to explain how our bodies take life and give life back to the earth after "death" in an ever prolonged circle. Not to go all Lion King on you guys, but that's pretty much it. We live in a cyclical world where everything that goes in us comes out of us in the end. We are mere vessels for an infinitesimally small bit of life that the world lends us for a few decades then asks us to return only to perpetuate that life into another mere vessel. Does this make us insignificant? Small? Unimportant? The short answer is no, but perhaps that's a question to be expounded upon later.
For now I want to talk about writing. About if writing can die. If literature can reach an end all be all that life cannot. Well? What do you think? Is literature eternal, or does it have a lifespan that, unlike us, never perpetuates? I'll let you think about that for a bit. Put it in either the religious or scientific perspective. I'd be interested to hear your ideas, and I'll post mine not too long from now.
Until then, thanks for reading,
GC
