One thing I like about cryptic literature (material that's rich in allegory, symbolism, metaphor, etc.) is that it requires me to supply the meaning. It's typical for most people to express one of three responses to such writing:
1) to be summarily dismissive,
2) to be frustrated or even angry, or
3) to "enjoy" it, mistaking it for a romp of imaginative entertainment.
I used to feel disappointed when others neglected the opportunity for deep reflection that enigmatic writing invites. Actually "disappointed" is too mild a description of those feelings. I actually felt very frustrated. Angry. Scared.
Why would I feel frustrated, angry or scared about such a thing? Because, in recognizing their responses to this literary genre in particular — and ambiguity in general — I could see how alone I was. I didn't like to feel so freakin' alone. I longed to share the reverie this type of literature inspires. Also, from a practical livelihood-earning standpoint, I realized that I most likely would never have a "dream job" following my "bliss," as Joseph Campbell might term it. As a writer and a creative person, there's just not much market for the kinds of output that flows from my heart-of-hearts. What's more, it seems clear to me that such responses to ambiguity and mystery are dangerous to the ultimate welfare of humankind.
But...hey, that's the way "it" is. That's the way people are. There's no grand influence or power I can exercise to align the world to my preferences or point of view. I won't find many who share these aspects of myself. So be it. I've created my own sense of peace. Like every other human being, I design and define the mental/emotional/spiritual space in which I live. All is well with my soul.
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