OF SCRIBBLINGS AND STRAIGHT LINES
Imagine a huge plain canvas. White. Spotless. And you are allowed to fill it with either straight lines or scribble through them. Our instincts will suggest that we scribble. Because, we'd think that it's less meticulous and doesn't require skill. Of Course it looks easy. Consider that we start scribbling. First stroke. Second curve. A whirl. And the other. The other. Until we are exhausted of scribbles. There would still be empty spaces on the canvas. So will we be empty of scribblings. We can't find new ways to scribble. A point comes, where we will become repetitive. In the end, if at all we take a look at the canvas in the end, we will find it looking chaotic. But repetitively chaotic. Uniformly random. Our randomness was limited to a few scribbles. If only we had chosen to fill up the entire canvas with straight lines, I suggest it would have been much simpler. It is simpler because there is no need to think. One needs to ensure that the lines are straight. And that's all. At the end, we would find a canvas filled with straight neat perfectly organized lines. Those lines that we could never say from each other. Everything looked exactly the same. If only we'd known earlier that lines wouldn't give us the trouble of thinking, we'd prefer lines over scribblings. And this is what we've been doing all our lives. That canvas is our life. We've chosen to fill it with monotonous straight lines, instead of taking the trouble to scribble vivid patterns. We've all been trying to organize chaos, instead of letting them be. We tried so hard in the past that now, we've forgotten what it is to be random. Spontaneous. Originally original. We've decided to replace the naturally spontaneous things with synthesized entities. That is indistinguishable. By things I mean, our thoughts. Our choices. Our inner preferences. Our ideology about the entire existence is imposed. Isn't that the biggest existential crisis in itself?
We've all been searching for ourselves and losing it simultaneously. It is easy to do the same thing again and again. The challenge lies in being non-repetitive. To scribble an entire canvas with distinguishable and different patterns that don't confine into a frequency. If we keep living ordinary lives of organized chaos, we'll be void of it. We'll never find new ways to scribble. So, the only way is to let the randomness inside prevail. Only that will help us explore new dimensions inside and outside ourselves. Or else, in the end we'll be similar. Perfect, no doubt. But that ain't us anymore. There is no need to be impeccably perfect. After all, what's even life if not flawed? Our chaos defines us. If we lose them, if we make our choices otherwise we are all but repetitive lines.