An Ode To Chaos

December 04, 2021 - 4 min read

For some, chaos is a ladder. They stay as an éminence grise and play with people and phenomena turning the gurgling pandemonium for their own good. For others, chaos means terror. Chaos means earth slipping from under foot and you have nothing to hold on to. For some, chaos is a battle you lose, the eternal crusade of the unknown against all animate and inanimate objects. For others, it is untamed energy ruling everything and everyone, an incomprehensible set of rules of our existence. Moving even a grain of sand causes the butterfly to begin its effect.

For me, chaos means many things, many random things, many from the abovementioned, and many I wouldn’t ever have time to list. They are all inexplicable events and whimsical decisions with no understandable reasons, leading to unpredictable consequences and diversity of outcomes, often unsuccessful, but always personally yours.

It is the translation of an academic whitepaper in which you find what later becomes your career; relocation to another country you've never been to work for a company you hadn't heard of a week ago; the beauty of random snowflake ornaments, the paintings of cold on frozen windows; the starry sky; the unpredictability of unexpected encounters with people, communities, books, films, music albums, paintings that later change your life forever; the courage of spontaneous decisions based on the uncomplicated YOLO principle; a text, resembling an incoherent stream of consciousness; random hobbies that then turn into passions and eat up all your free time shaping you into who you are; a strange attractor set by a system of just two mathematical equations; a random choice of a new coffee shop that becomes your favorite; an extra glass of absinthe with burnt sugar, green fairy’s eyes lost in the distant past; music resembling random noise, which inctricately conceals the beauty of melody and lyrics; impulsive purchases, a lottery, the rise and fall of another shitcoin; walking without a plan, doing without a plan, thinking without a plan; adrenaline, vehemence, intuition, thrill.

All these are stars born in the dance of feelings, emotions, desires, childish urges, sparks of passion. There is no space in this dance for excessive logic, often followed by overthinking, fears, peer pressure, social constructs. There is no space in it for an algorithm that thinks for you, instead of you. There is no space in this dance for a plan thoroughly made by you from the past. There is no space in it for you from the past, you from the future, you from any other time or parallel universe.

It happens only within the moment. A chaotic entity flows in the ocean of entropy, hurls itself headlong in the storm, dives into the deep, emerges back, again and again, from light to darkness, from the bottom to the surface, to the moon, to the sun, to the cosmos. A flutter of hands, an eager gulp of oxygen. It opens its eyes, it devours the air, leaving circles on the water, and they run apart with their roughness on the occasional vibration of waves, growing big and dissolving.

You write off the chaos as luck, smartassery, strategy, slyness. You start calling it a grand scheme, fate. You claim it as destiny. It doesn't like other names, gets offended. The universal law: things tend to fuck up on occasion. Failure, failure, misfortune, fiasco. What are the odds? You now fear chaos. You cannot accept it, nor reconcile. You could not tame it, foolishly, not realizing the task is impossible. Chaos, unlike you, is free from boundaries. It is handcuffed to no structure. It is a wild cat, walking by itself, doing whatever it wants, wherever that may take it. You are afraid to look into its bottomless eyes, the void and ennui of prospects. You run away. You look for a structure. Plan. Algorithm. Protocol. Routine. You take control of the situation and start following the paved path. But for a while: then questions arise. Is it the path I always wanted? May I, by any chance, turn around, back, go another way, another direction, orthogonal one? What if you take it and throw it away, crumple it, put it in a bucket, shred to pieces, or set it on fire and see how it disappears, hisses: a pleasant smell of burnt paper. What is next? What if chaos was order all along, an invisible agile structure you could not comprehend, a latent variable following its own omnipotence? No answers. Obtaining them is not within your power.

The structure then becomes a cage. Its bars are the wish to take control, to comprehend, to plan. Stagnation. Fear of failure, self-censorship of soul and thought, the anchor stuck under the rock. You are a bird in this cage. It sits, ruffling its feathers, looking through the bars. Now, it wants to fly but every flap of its wings causes pain.

Make some delightful mess.

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