Are we really?

Are we merely mechanics,

Learning

Theorizing

Agonizing

Over what?

Absurdity

Are we groaning

Aching

Hoping

And alas dashed to nothing

Forgoing facts

Yet sure in our observation

Renouncing faith

Yet fully embracing our despair

We are so so sure there is nothing.

Are we mere scientists to see our thesis and conclusion,

To create our net-like theories and statistics

We have made our bed

But nobody is in a hurry to lie in it.

No instead is a groan of despair

For we are now reduced to being observers

We are passive and sure

While we once hailed the death of certainty

We have made our bed

And we are lying in it in death.

We have hailed the end of systems

We have hurled reason into chaos

Given voice to mad men

And are sure of our futile cycle.

Once we were called to dream.

To see as though from above, to see the world

in all its complexities below, a bustling city of queer patterns

and predicable anomalies.

Or overwhelmed with the passion of the experience. 

Standing in the center of it all and seeing into the deeper recesses.  Gloriously.

In awe or blissful experience we once stood.
But in front of the pattern now we stand,

as children after the fair—

or watching puppet show
 from the wrong side of the stage. 

Our worse fears have come true. 

The paint is not as bright,

the lights only shine on the outside,

and the set is all too flat and grim.

 Our pinnacle of philosophy is merely to “understand” the system.  The ridiculous revel in knowing what’s wrong; because, so much is wrong.

But what mechanic only knows the problem?

A philosopher is now nothing but a blinking, whining, repetitive, oil light.

We are crying out like a child who fully believes,

he fully knows,

that everything is wrong.

Philosophy died not when she crucified reason, or proclaimed even God was dead,

She was no more when she decided, that nothing could ever be said.