Nonsense: The Currency of the Blog.

The attempt at communication is a mysterious thing. I'm barely able to formulate a cohesive and consistent strain of thought, let alone convey it to another with confidence in what is said. Sure, we can chit chat here and there, we've learned to do that well enough, but communicating abstract thought in a genuine and coherent manner is so very difficult! I suppose I say this because I'm generally confused. The undertaking of any given thought process/intellectual inquiry ends up in something quite curious (for me at least). I always end up reflecting upon that which I'm reflecting upon (meta-reflection? ha) and conclude that I'm not sure at all why I've chosen this subject. What does it truly mean in relation to myself? If we engage in any given line of thought (simply for the fun of solving a puzzle) then new puzzles will always arise.

Take philosophy, for example. We identify certain sets of philosophical problems which we label "interesting" and attempt to offer a solution for the given problem. Yet, problems are never truly isolated... the question of vagueness, for example, is not isolated from questions of language, context and the metaphysical. The assessment of the metaphysical is not independent of an inquiry into the nature of our experience, and so on ad infinitum.

So why do we ask? Do we truly think that we'll find answers to isolated questions and the infinite string of questions which springs from these?

Why do we ask?

I worry that many philosophical undertakings have lost sight of the goal... or have been searching absent a goal all of the while. What is the philosophy of philosophy? What is this elusive existential commitment which we as self-aware beings unwittingly give into?

These sorts of questions are often labeled frivolous. Spiritual, perhaps (which often carries with it an implication of pseudo-intellectual nonsense).

I am ranting. I always am. I find myself so entirely dissatisfied with the current nature of *things*. This cannot be the only perspective that we are capable of cultivating. I am tired of playing an infinite game of cat and mouse.

I cannot name it and perhaps I shall never be able to, though I suppose I have no choice but to try.