Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It's this thing i have on strife. it just bothers me like a little pest. No matter the 'quantity of philosophy' that i associate with my motivation it comes down to a pretty basic thing really. the need to survive. and then we make these distinctions between existing and living and surviving and thriving and as many 'ivings' and 'ovings' or simple 'ings' that we like. It all seems pretty useless. Its rather wonderful, run thousands of miles away form your home but once you return home - the net displacement is zero. There's a lot here with displacement. it applies to me, to life, to everything that surrounds me and to the nothing around me. is there or isn't there? This comes with the territory does it not. i'm not sure where i'm going with...well i am but its that language problem again so we'll wait. Later.
In the Ghana of our dreams the child is like a diamond, treated with utmost love and significance, the youth are comparable to an energy source (say oil) whose contributions are acknowledged as unrivalled and inimitable, critical to the success of our nation, and finally the elders, analogous to refined gold, a display of the royalty of our nature, the radiance of our exquisiteness and the immense value of our people.
In the Ghana of our dreams each man works to achieve for the nation’s good. Our leaders are blessed with the understanding that leadership is in essence service and our people comprehend that a government is empowered only by the people. In so that each lives knowing that as he walks and works, he treads on chords that vibrate for all eternity affecting the future of not only his progeny but the children of many to come.
In this Ghana we have order; we keep to time, make appointments and plan ahead. We have the acuity to look at both long-term and short term benefits. A place where a man is his word and his value is in his work. A place with a system of law, order and accountability, where society’s elite and working class have access to the same definition of justice, with a system of legislation that looks out for the common man and a judicial system that stands independent enough to effectively preserve all of his rights.
It is a Ghana where we have educated, enlightened and open-minded adults whose lot does not rest on ’government’ but is earned on the merit of their own hard work. It is a place where national pride is not while-a-soccer-match but where our anthem is etched into the core of our very hearts. A country like ours can be rich in culture and rich in money, because our Ghana is not limited to the American definition but is indeed the sort of wealthy that is displayed on the African child’s face, as a smile emerges not because he can finally dream of eating something (dear God anything!) after three day, but because he is aware that years ago that may have been his reality.
The Ghana of our dreams provides fertile soil for its youth to imbibe the art of excellence hence a verdant nation. The Ghanaian child has a voice, a powerful one at that, trained and refined by the virtues of our culture. He has keenness and aptitude enhanced by education coupled with the blessing of youthfulness. (Forgive me but today I hear very little wisdom from the so called old Folk…maybe I’ve listening to too much radio). When I say the child has been developed I mean he has access to a holistic education that covers principles, ethics and academics; values of honesty, integrity and passion for one’s work (I mean you can’t be told silly things like you are taking things ‘too personal’ because you don’t want your teacher to spend the whole lesson lamenting about people being late or not bringing in their work or worse still you’re standing alone at one side of the room because the rest of your class concurs that copying off someone’s work or miraculously having the test questions before hand ‘is not cheating’) Forgive me, I digress, a student whose quest is for enlightenment so that he can put it to use.
In our Ghana, labor is fruitful, for on the harvest ground we each have sufficient bundles (but we have to be attractive…healthy…uno, no beer bellies and obesity [we reserve that for a lower class of people perhaps] because that exposes us to more disease, reduces our labor force and costs us irreplaceable time and money). It is a beautiful thing to see each of us rejoicing because we have conquered the world without selling our souls or the beauty of our heritage.
It is a Ghana that reaches out to those in need because it can afford to and genuinely wants to.
People will always complain but in this Ghana while we complain we know that we have much to be thankful for and while we’re done complaining we’re still at the drawing board because we possess the crucial knowledge that it is our onus to make things better.
Sometimes in April it rains, because it’s the season. Sometimes in May I wonder why it rains, in June and also in May. Trivialities like these seem to characterize the life that I live. In the face of wars, famine, pain and suffering I seem to falter in terms of my comprehension of things like aspiration and ambition. When the whole world needs inspiration we’re fighting for ambition. Ambition to save the world perhaps?
I have a habit of disconnected ideas. Forgive me. Sometimes I risk potential system overload. Not because I am so stressed or so tired or so unhappy or so ungrateful or so young as to not understand. Simply because so much seems to go on in my mind and I can rarely find a way to express my self. Can i express myself to myself to myself? i think so but on setting it down to paper or putting it at the mercy of any form of language it loses all its meaning. well not all but a lot of meaning especially its ocntext and import. Why then do i bother to write. to attempt this destruction of my ideas...as if they are so wonderful.
Why Sometimes in April, quite frankly only sometimes, because in reality sometimes it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t a lot of this rat race loses its meaning. I can’t find the words to express my ideas but I think the basic import I hope is for me the vicissitudes of life or better put perhaps its very apparent mutability.Nought remains but mutability i should blog on that. later.
Its only sometimes in April and then its in May and sometimes its even not at all. Why am I fighting to attain something that may turn out to be meaningless and then how do I know if to fight for anything when all seems to change so frequently. I tire from this nonsense though I have ,erely exhausted the prologue to my ranting. I have a gift. I do not make sense.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
I realize now that I do not believe that there is a world of ideas. I also do not care if there is a world of ideas. I realize that whether or not I choose to believe that there is a world of is an afterlife it does not matter too much now here. Where is here anyway? Sometimes I wonder is all of me truly here? Because a belief that there is or is not still precludes a random life. If there is an after-tomorrow or no tomorrow, each action still requires miraculous thought.
I must live life as though there were nothing after but as though there were. That I should be involved without being too involved. We’re all going to die. I should remind you. We tend to forget. Yesterday was and today is and that is exactly how my life was/is. Somethings are merely a matter of fact. You are reading this. I am. The World is. Although this seems to mean little I figure this is quite like all else. I wonder.
What relevance is there of a world of ideas, separate from ours but incomprehensibly linked to it? None whatsoever. At least not now, not to me. Or perhaps it matters and I simply have not have cause to think of it. Even now I have not bothered to do so too well and I will not. I have already said that I do not believe that there is a world of ideas, I will not change my mind, at least not now. But everything changes though- life possesses a remarkable mutability. I’m living this kind of life. Whatever that means I have not bothered to write about though I have pondered it. Truly the question that plagues this mind’s random musings - Why is this life lived like this?