What is, is tedious, unremarkable. Only temporary and quickly ameliorated ignorance leads us to be interested in “interesting” things. Yet the facts of our world are so highly critical of us and our misconstruals, as to be dictatorial; but this is (only) one way of looking at things. Another is as worlds, each world having different facts – each of us, in fact, being entitled not only to our own opinions but, as well, to our own facts. Thus it is that the rain of criticisms is greatly multiplied, and the reign of others becomes unbearable, if untenable. Each, who knows no better, attempts to lay waste the worlds of each other. It is nothing but pious fraudulence – spiritual flatulence – to pretend to be doing, ever, anything else (and so do I seek to lay waste to thee).
Facts, as facts, limit us in body and mind. The imagination – disappearing, it is said, with every YouTube video a child sees – is left to explore. The bottom of the sea: nothing but facts. But we base our imaginings on facts, so let's look again: just as a prisoner bases his or her imaginings on facts. Imaginings are the ghostly remains of what were once beyond the realm of human knowledge or of some humans' knowledge. The tracked earth, soared heights, and plumbed depths are each in their turns subjected to domination. The birds, flying about “uncooked,” become facts.
This describes the result of one type of view of the world. It is nonetheless the dominant one, if not in number then in fact. It is uninteresting, whatever happened in fact. What didn't happen (but might have instead) dwarfs the fatum brutum, the brute fact, itself little different – whatever it is – from a roll of a die. A sports event ends when the dice stop, and some attach importance to the result. Some lose; some profit. No die roll is different, in essence, in fact, from any other. The facts of the die roll as such are the same between all. Surrounding facts, giving context of importance some might say, are each a die rolling. We link them, imagining as most do, to suss out their meaning. We factify them. And we try our hands at the demolition of others' interpretations. We give our support, in the end, to further this demolition. We take special care the carcass, when demolished, doesn't fall onto us!
I sit in the coffee shop, among many, some of us reading, some playing games with noisy blocks (or dice?), some discussing or extemporizing upon work. There is no place nearby – is there? – free of talk of the facts, of work. Thus, I ask: What point to work is there, but more work, of this work? Many do nothing – or do they? – but work: their rest is recuperation for work to follow; their reading the taking in, blindly, of information to get ahead at work; their recreation is opportunity for networking; their worship will be subversive comparison of others' work.
What is outside work? Is there any point – is there any hope of a world without constant devotion to work? “Take pride in your work.” What is this pride, who is to take (and give) this pride, why ought we take this pride? Take pride in your work, that your heirs may take pride in theirs, and so on. A hand turning a crank, that moves the hand – forever.
The imagination is beyond work. In imagining, we turn from facts – from work – to what is not, some of which may be, once certain works have been done; but here we are back in the world of work! The impossible, then, is that part of the imagination that deals with work, if at all, in a wholly negative way. Whatever can't be done circumscribes work. If there seems to be work that cannot be done, we have made a mistake. We have confused the impossible with what is possible.
We need what is unnecessary. To live in the impossible is to live beyond necessity. It is not so strange. When one imagines, one just might wander into the blessed turmoil of what cannot be, and there to find a why to live.