The professor continued his lecture with a calm, unexcited tone: “... as a matter of fact,the ultimate conundrum of human existence is the realization of our impossibility create matter. Nothing is ever lost or gone forever, matter only changes. Even when we discuss that big void in space in between planets, we are nothing but recognizing the impossibility to bring something entirely new into the stage. The universe is airtight filled.”
This particular evening I was by myself, no classmates nearby, and my struggle to stay awake through the lecture was making me concentrate more in creative positions to look -and stay- awake than to listen to the professor's arguments. If I had given a second thought to it, I would've realized that my efforts defeated the purpose of staying in that room. A part of me always believed that a sleeping listener is as good as an alert one. Some time ago a marketing department thought they could sell the idea that we could learn while dreaming. They did a better job in selling all the merchandise associated to it than to sell an idea that shortly after was abandoned in preference of other branding strategies. In my case, I that hopeless idea to convince myself of staying in class, regardless of my poor stamina.
This particular evening I was by myself, no classmates nearby, and my struggle to stay awake through the lecture was making me concentrate more in creative positions to look -and stay- awake than to listen to the professor's arguments. If I had given a second thought to it, I would've realized that my efforts defeated the purpose of staying in that room. A part of me always believed that a sleeping listener is as good as an alert one. Some time ago a marketing department thought they could sell the idea that we could learn while dreaming. They did a better job in selling all the merchandise associated to it than to sell an idea that shortly after was abandoned in preference of other branding strategies. In my case, I that hopeless idea to convince myself of staying in class, regardless of my poor stamina.
Many times I questioned my gregariousness, my herd behaviour, my weariness. Was I in class just because I was supposed to? As I reviewed my arguments once more, my focus still travelling through a forgotten limbo of the mind, the professor's lecture re-entered -unannounced- into me.
“...we fight to give us credit for moving the sequences of matter and motion. We think we created art, when we just put in a certain order existing thoughts, existing materials: a song is just a sequence of motions in certain matter. Feelings are not far different from that. Artistic creation has more common with rearranging the furniture of our living room than it has with creation itself. Because we can't create we pretend that we can by fooling ourselves with that. We cannot create, we shall never be able to such thing. Only the ones who are aware of this, may attempt something even more dangerous: they seek power. Governance over the matter is the consolation of the ones who admitted that they can't be creating gods. But once we realize the true nature of power, that our capacity is truly all we have to make ...”
As subject shifted into an exclamation of revolutionary despair, my mind went back to it's latent state. It was a class of over a hundred and twenty students, but I heard nothing but some whispering gossiping, nothing that could wake me up.
The class that came to an end shortly after was the last time the professor was ever seen. Years later still remains a mystery. Some suggested a crime, some even suggested the possibility of a political murder. I personally thought that, unable to change it, the professor brought his whole argument to a consequent end. That night, while I was sitting in the bus in my way home, I went through the traces of notes I made for that class, only to find a small piece, almost a haiku, written by my hand, but not by me.
The world, the balance.
Sometimes to create
equals to destroy
“...we fight to give us credit for moving the sequences of matter and motion. We think we created art, when we just put in a certain order existing thoughts, existing materials: a song is just a sequence of motions in certain matter. Feelings are not far different from that. Artistic creation has more common with rearranging the furniture of our living room than it has with creation itself. Because we can't create we pretend that we can by fooling ourselves with that. We cannot create, we shall never be able to such thing. Only the ones who are aware of this, may attempt something even more dangerous: they seek power. Governance over the matter is the consolation of the ones who admitted that they can't be creating gods. But once we realize the true nature of power, that our capacity is truly all we have to make ...”
As subject shifted into an exclamation of revolutionary despair, my mind went back to it's latent state. It was a class of over a hundred and twenty students, but I heard nothing but some whispering gossiping, nothing that could wake me up.
The class that came to an end shortly after was the last time the professor was ever seen. Years later still remains a mystery. Some suggested a crime, some even suggested the possibility of a political murder. I personally thought that, unable to change it, the professor brought his whole argument to a consequent end. That night, while I was sitting in the bus in my way home, I went through the traces of notes I made for that class, only to find a small piece, almost a haiku, written by my hand, but not by me.
The world, the balance.
Sometimes to create
equals to destroy
