How superfluous these philosophical concepts are he thought, as he made his way home through the driving rain. Life, the lived and unlived life, the lived in memory life, the looming uncertainty of life shows us its face and we present ourselves to this life, the only thing that we know about it or are forced to know, without wanting to know it or desire it and we live it and then thinking in silence about these silent questions that chase us daily, we are reminded of these philosophical questions that are framed in concepts, in neat words and terms, of schools of thought. We learn of the men and women who have thought them, who with the force of rhetoric have given the passive world a few concepts to make sense of itself, to make sense silently, of a silent world. What use these concepts he thought again as he tried making his way through the driving rain? The words he should have spoken today or yesterday or even before to acknowledge the distress and silence and pain of the person in distress and silence and pain were driven out of his mind by the physical force of an insistent world. And yet, as he made his way through the driving rain, this falling silent rain, this pouring rain and vapour, he realized the unnecessary importance of certain philosophical questions and concepts that he had heard people explain and describe, words like ontology and existence and being and time. Some such words like existence and being and time that he had never understood, for he kept thinking of that person with longing eyes, the separation of distances mapped by furrows and lines on a face chosen for distances and lines.
How was it possible to live without acknowledging to himself, as he made his way through this driving rain, the insistent and unrepentant farce of these philosophical questions, of these philosophical concepts, of terms like ontology and existence and being and time when he had left unexplained to that person he had left behind, when he had not told the person he had left unaddressed the question of silence? How can a person, making his way through insistent rain explain to another person, the sullen silence of silence and the inability to express, to surmount with words the hermitage of sensitivity, the inability to acknowledge the distress and silence and pain and the distress and silence and pain of the person left behind? How can philosophy, with the coldness of its anarchy explain the distress and silence and pain of closing windows on a previous life and let us live and walk sometimes through the driving rain, as he was walking now, through the driving rain, with questions like ontology and existence and being and time? The most important things in life, like acknowledging the distress and silence and pain, the silence and failure of expressed and unexpressed words, witnessed and unwitnessed pain, and trying to surmount, with useless words the hermitage of sensitivity, these important things were being left behind and such were his thoughts as he made way home through the driving rain.