Time is relative...

What is reality? So Eliot asks us in "Burnt Norton," the first of the four quartets. Some would say that reality is what we perceive through our five senses. If that's the case, then anyone who hasn't been to China can't confidently claim that China exists. Some would say reality is whatever one makes it (an existentialist approach). If that's the case, does any concrete reality exist, or is it all just a series of delusions?

The bird in the poem states, "human kind/cannot stand very much reality." One could interpret that multiple ways (for simplicity's sake, I'll look at it from two angles). First, one could see that line as an indication of humankind's inability to fully comprehend the natural world (and the spiritual one for that matter). Nothing on this planet is simple. Take this blog for example. On the surface, I'm merely typing a blog post and subsequently posting it. But if one delves into the reality of this action, one will never get to the bottom of it. I'm working on a computer which is composed of multiple parts, each of which serve a specific function. Each of those parts is made from elements found on the earth which means that someone had to discover the element and then find a use for said element. It goes on and on...Our minds simply buckle under the weight of reality's vast multitude of facets.

Looking at that quote from an emotional standpoint, a whole series of issues emerge. Human emotion jades our various perspectives on life. My emotional reaction to a set of stimuli may be the converse of someone else's. In a sense, everyone has his own emotional reality. As humans, we select how much of each emotion we choose to invest in reality. The quintessential "I don't care" concept permeates our lives as if to prove time and again that we need to ration our emotions so they don't overwhelm us. Eliot is saying that we are incapable of fully caring about everything.

As a final note to that idea, Eliot writes that "What might have been is an abstraction/Remaining a perpetual possibility/Only in a world of speculation." All of our "what ifs" serve no purpose as they will never manifest themselves in reality. It almost seems as though Eliot criticizes us for dwelling on the past so much given our inability to change it. Practically speaking, that makes logical sense. But, from an emotional standpoint, we often cannot let go our abstract desires to alter the past.