Sometime I miss the simple cliques in life — cliques that are microcosms of the world, sans the complexity. It’s so easy to belong to cliques, and forget there is world outside. Sometimes I wonder why the proverbial koop mandook — the frog in the well — is so looked down upon. Is it the arrogance of those living in tad bigger wells? But, in the end, aren’t we all just that?
For thousands of years, humanity has lived believing their small jungle, their small town, their small region/state/nation, their small continent, their small world … is all that there is. And that’s just geography — or cosmology… it’s funny how, with the gnostic arrogance, the names of disciplines change.
Is it ignorance that we abhor in the koop mandook? Or is it is a twinge of jealousy at the state of the mind that is satisfied with limited knowledge? Or is it both? The answers are hard to come with authority, even within oneself.
But this isn’t about the answers. This isn’t even about the questions. The wonderful (in a highly contextual, highly subjective sense) world of a clique seems so complete while you believe in them — or rather in their completeness. Cliques, are completely connected, by definition — the mathematical definition that is. But then that completeness is artificial. It comes from excluding points, or points of views, thoughts, cultures, people, communities. With every inclusion, the complexity of a clique increases.
With inclusion we start missing lines. With complexity, completeness becomes the first casualty. Every inclusion is progressively more incomplete. Progressively more fragmentary.
Is there a going back? Isn’t every point, every line, every triangle, a clique? Every time, our world becomes too complex to comprehend, too incomplete to believe in anything … more cliques spring up, to fill up the voids of the incompleteness. But we know, that we need to forget the larger picture to believe in the smaller — even a selective amnesia will do. In art of forgetting, then, lies our redemption — even if momentary. For each redemption, is a new birth; a partial reincarnation.
I wonder, if in the obsession with knowledge, and remembering, we’ve forgotten that crucial art of forgetting? Or is it memory that keeps us from falling back into the deceiving safety of cliques? For the connecting lines often turn out to be dotted, broken ones, or just knots complete in their own right. And the knowledge that we’ve seen smaller picture cracking around us, probably gives us a hope that we could survive the chaos of the larger one. In the end, it’s uncertainty that’s knowledge, and certainty that’s an illusion. And the mind, drags the reluctant heart out of the longing for cliques. Till the next storm …