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The Dream of the Butterfly
It was a cool evening in ancient China. Chuang Tzu's friend went looking for him at the local inn. He found Chuang Tzu sitting at a table, sipping his drink in a contemplative mood.
"There you are!" Chuang Tzu's friend greeted him. "I thought by now you would be telling everybody another one of your stories. Why so quiet?"
"There is a question on my mind," said Chuang Tzu, "a question about existence."
"I see. Would you like me to leave you alone to your thoughts?"
"No, let me share it with you. Perhaps you can provide me with your perspective."
"My perspective is of little value, but I would be glad to listen." He pulled up a chair.
"I was out for a stroll late in the afternoon," said Chuang Tzu. "I went to one of my favorite spots under a tree. I sat there, thinking about the meaning of life. It was so warm and pleasant that I soon relaxed, dozed off, and drifted into a dream. In my dream, I found myself flying up above the field. I looked behind me and saw that I had wings. They were large and beautiful, and they fluttered rapidly. I had turned into a butterfly! It was such a feeling of freedom and joy, to be so carefree and fly around so lightly in any way I wished. Everything in this dream felt absolutely real in every way. Before long, I forgot that I was ever Chuang Tzu. I was simply the butterfly and nothing else."
"I've had dreams of flying myself, but never as a butterfly," Chuang Tzu's friend said. "This dream sounds like a wonderful experience."
"It was, but like all things, it had to end sooner or later. Gradually, I woke up and realized that I was Chuang Tzu after all. This is what puzzles me."
"What is so puzzling about it? You had a nice dream, that's all there is to it."
"What if I am dreaming right now? This conversation I am having with you seems real in every way, but so did my dream. I thought I was Chuang Tzu who had a dream of being a butterfly. What if I am a butterfly who, at this very moment, is dreaming of being Chuang Tzu?"
"Well, I can tell you that you are actually Chuang Tzu, not a butterfly."
Chuang Tzu smiled: "You may simply be part of my dream, no more or less real than anything else. Thus, there is nothing you can do to help me identify the distinction between Chuang Tzu and the butterfly. This, my friend, is the essential question about the transformation of existence."
Dopuna: 08 Mar 2009 12:08
Da vidimo kako krasnoreki Ferid Muhić povezuje Zenonov paradoks (priča o Ahilu i kornjači), i san Čuang Cua, nalazeći da se suština i jedne i druge priče nalazi u razotkrivanju postojanja i nepostojanja, i "životu koji bi da prestigne smrt":
Citat:Kakve kornjače, kakve trke! Kakve opklade! Ako nije istina da smo besmrtni, ili ako je istina da smo smrtni - onda je svaka druga istina potpuno nevažna; onda je nevažno šta je od preostalog (ako je ono "preostalo-tišina"!) istina a šta nije istina.
Prava kornjača - to je naše telo. Naizgled savršeno oklopljeno, naizgled večno i neprobojno; ali, gle, eno jedne male, slatke pete, sa otvorčićem koji se ne može zabraviti, zamandaliti, zakrpiti, začepiti, koji se ne može zaboraviti!
A Ahil je naš vedri i silni, brzonogi duh. Ahil je leptir. Nije slučajno Veliki učitelj Lao Ce sanjao, u onom paradigmatičnom snu, upravo da je - žuti leptir. Kako, uistinu, i može da se zna jesmo li mi - ljudi koji ponekad sanjaju da su žuti leptirovi, ili smo - žuti leptirovi koji, povremeno, sanjaju da su ljudi?
I igra se taj naš žuti leptir, taj naš duh. Igra se svim i svačim. Recimo - rečima: Čuang Ce (a to je drugo ime Lao Ce-a) i Konfucije - povezani uzastopno: Čuang Ce Konfucije - čine iskaz opomene, uz malu izmenu: "Čuvaj se konfuzije"! Leprša leptirić, hteo bi iz rešetki, iz sepeta, iz zatvora u koji je zatočen: nisu orfici uzalud govorili da reč "telo" ("soma") potiče od reči "zatvor", "rešetka", "košara" ("Sozesthdi").
Skoro sasvim bestelesni leptirić, sa krilima toliko nežnim i tanušnim da su morala biti posuta onim prahom - da bi uopšte znao da su još tu i da ih ima - dizan čistom toplotom sunca i tla, sav pretočen u cvet što leti, u jasnost i prozirnost zbog koje izgleda da ni vazduha nema, lako, bezbroj puta, nadleće, prestiže kornjaču koja lagano stupa čestarom, kroz šuštanje hrastovog lišća.
Biće, jeste; Ne-biće, nije!
Leptir, jeste; Kornjača, nije!
Duša, jeste; Rešetke, nisu!
Leteće naš leptir zauvek, kroz neprestano proleće, prestizaće onu sporu kornjaču što napreduje kroz suvo, crveno hrastovo lišće.
Prah sa leptirovih krila nadživeće kornjačin oklop. Tanušna i laka crta leptirovog tela, savladaće mutnu studen žute kornjačine krvi, što se jedva drži na granici zgrušavanja. Razigrani privid života i putovanja, vedrine i bezbrižnosti, odoleće sporom primicanju kornjače u čiji smo oklop zatvorili svoju ranjivu petu.
Ferid Muhić, Melanholični Zenon (Štit od zlata)
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