We are utterly weaved together in one form, the human race. And yet we are also split into numerous types, likes flocks of birds or packs of beasts. How we see the world, our perceptions and the behaviours which stem from them, separate us all into distinct groups. In a very close way to Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’, we are faced always with a seeming progress towards a specific niche, as nature compels us towards her design. It is natural to protest and favour ideas that speak to us of individual uniqueness, but even this particular fingerprint denotes a stereotype which identifies and categories us into a well-grooved box from which there is no escape. A unique identity is one which can only be acknowledged with a clause at the bottom of the document, written in a very fine print.
There is an inherent desire in all of us to know what we are and to be astonished when typologies from old ancient documents or modern psychological tests tell us facts to our behaviour which we did not notice before. There is a dumbfounded quality in us all, one which we believe with great certainty to be true, and then realize for a brief moment of how completely in the dark we actually are. The efficiency of the brain and the emotive nerves demand that certainties be formed in our minds, so that we can notice less the routine and ordinary and focus our energies only on the new and novel. The passage of time comes to bear and this efficiency runs amok, leaving us with boredom as we stomp over the raw and ripe details of life.
Happiness is a term that is entirely overused; a vague concept with recourse to nothing but ambiguous ideas of what exactly it is and how it ought to come about. The reality is we are content only when the living moment has verve and rich texture, qualities which require our minds to let go of their certainties and begin to juggle the moment as if it were in constant motion. However obvious this may seem, it is likely one of the most impossible traits to adopt as we live through the high-paced rhythm of modern life. To believe you can look onto a wooden table or coffee mug with interest and awe is not only unlikely, but will also be seen as silly madness. To restrain one’s certainties and struggle towards observing the ordinary as the extraordinary can be a one-way ticket to the local asylum — should you tell anyone about it.
It has to be realized that we are of a mechanical nature, that our thoughts always play themselves out in accustomed patterns, and that this limits our experience of reality to an absurd degree. Observation of others can often reveal traits and qualities in ourselves which we cannot clearly see, and so it is a habit that is indispensible in our exploration of what makes us tick. People walk through the streets and do today as they did yesterday. These patterns are age-old, written of in Shakespeare as they are by today’s writers, and immediately available to our eyes and ears should we have the inclination to do so. The effort has to be one of a two-directional arrow, looking upon ourselves in close study at an equal intensity to how we look onto the world.
There are types, solid and true, and we more or less fall into one or another. The uniqueness of our individuality is less valid towards our personalities and more true in discovering our personal approach to living in the moment. How we struggle to be awake and conscious, bringing to bear all our efforts to this immediate moment, is the only unique quality that is worth anything. How does one identify themselves, know their cracks and blemishes, and adopt a lifestyle which tackles them one by one? If it can be done alone, we would see it more often. But it is a very odd and strange venture to be witnessed in this world, for it happens in disguise and in the shadows of daily encounters. It cannot be seen with the eye because it is an inner journey from which its fruits are as equally hidden from plain sight.