I thought to myself, why might I align myself with any philosophy of man? As they are all so seemingly presumptuous. Yet, I myself am a man. I am not capable of attaining some mastery of occult knowledge gifted by the gods, as I am too flawed to distinguish between divine sincerity and man’s venality. Without verging on fallaciousness, I cannot rationally determine a proper perspective, the ideally hued lens, through which to witness my humanity in its earthly context. I found periods of solidarity distancing myself from my humanity. A heroic endeavor I had not pursued…a rite of passage I had failed. A terrible serenity, an itch to trigger, had kept me from appreciating my un-precarious journey through a meager existence.
I found myself considering, why doth I worry so about failure? When I consider that if I should fail, life shall surely continue, but if it should not, then the misstep is irrelevant to my story. Should life continue I must rectify my deficiencies. Reminisce, resolve, and march ever forward beyond my grieving self. In doing so, striving towards a greater appreciation for my manifestation. To write a more beautiful poetry. To see roses where once were diminishing coals…the rose…a wonderful juxtaposition of beauty and malevolence. A vicious romance, painful and gorgeous, bloody and dark, full of intoxicating black inky bile to write upon the anima with quivering quill. So abused she is…locked away, never spoken of; forgotten.
You should have never come here.
-But I did not know what else to do!
That is inconsequential, there is nothing for you here, save pain and suffering. You will not be rewarded for your misery. Instead you will be despised and cast out, more than you already are. People will consider you elitist for your pointless endeavor…selfish even.
-This is not what I had in mind…not what I expected at all.
I know…it is an unfortunate thing that you are experiencing, but it is your burden to suffer this nonsense. Remember, you chose this. You forced this upon yourself. Your pain is your own and you will either pass or you will fail. Neither result is of any great consequence, as you hate this. You despise it with whirlwind fury. You fucking masochistic asshole. Your god damn egocentric elitist superiority complex has turned against you. How dare you? Expecting that all considered valid by men would be comprehensible to you.
-We have all been deceived. There is no fucking way this is true.
You thought yourself intelligent when in fact you were the idiot! You were the imbecile!
-How could I have been so blind?
Well, you are only human, flawed and beastly dead.
Why ought I be a reasonable person? After all, when the great Hume’s guillotine was put forth I found there to be no rational argument, that is, no perfectly logical phrasing that can be constructed as to why I ought to be reasonable. Then again, logic is only provisional and requiring of assumptions that are neither provable nor unprovable, axioms, in order to manifest any formal structuring. So, there is no good reason, if good be equated with logical, as to why one should accept the axioms. Yet, it would seem that the acceptance of axioms is an irrational compulsion. However, if one does not accept such axioms then one cannot structure rational thought. Yet to feed the logic machine one must have an irrational seed. Logic has no use without an irrationally chosen goal in mind to which the hounds of Logos might be set forth upon. So, to eat, to breathe, to think, to exist as a human is to be irrational. Thus it would seem, the gods of Reason cannot be served alone by lowly man.
As humans we seem to take life quite seriously. We think so much about things that we forget to simply be, as we seem to be. To over-think and to over-analyse our existence leads to disparity of the body and the mind. The detachment we suffer disturbs us to the point of breaking. If philosophical pursuits engage individuals to the point of enjoyment then by all means feel free to pursue the happiness sought after. However, if it does not yield a fruit of enjoyment then I strongly insist resistance to the speculation of universes crafted in the image of man.
My soul feels weepy, if that seems sensible. There is a beauty seemingly missing from my myth, which remains vacant and it disappoints me. I feel cocooned…I am awaiting the metamorphosis…I long to be the butterfly, to flit in the wind. I tire of playing the worm. Always too young. Not quite aged. When is my grand debut? And if I decease prior to the scheduled date? Will it all have been for naught? In vain shall I have been procrastinated? And if I do survive to meet that grandiose stage? Will it have meaning? Does it even matter? If I flatter the maddened hatter?
You know, you read stuff like Bukowski and you see the lack of fulfillment from hedonistic endeavors not too dissimilar from those engaged in by such a tremendous alcoholic as Charles. And yet, there is some sense of romanticism about the life of the barfly. However, I have realized that we all love to idolize everything that we are not, but aspire to be. That or what we draw our inspirations from. The well is deep, but the font is dry.
I don’t claim to know what a sense of fulfillment, meaning, or purpose really is, but I think these are what we proclaim to the trees from the hilltops when our hunger goes unsatisfied and we desire more than we have. We are filthy animals with poor priorities. We recognize our slavers, but we are afraid to rebel.
“Wouldn’t it be nice?” they say. But it’s not life.
“But it could be life…and that is the key that everyone refuses to admit!”
Life is strife. Science our bane, now that god has died. The war machine lurches ever forward, its hunger never ceasing as it feeds upon our bigotry and greed. The rich maintain their serenity. The poor suffer effortlessly with their belief that the disparity, which never ceases to increase, is somehow an improvement on the way that things used to be. Foreign youth cry for democracy as our troops shoot them down. Are they not fulfilled by the equality we bring? Black, white, male, female, mother, daughter, father, son, young and old, all races, all genders, all quantifiers and labels, equally privileged to die by our hands!
“Oh no!” they cry.
“This cannot be what we believed!
“This is certainly not what we meant to say or to see!
“No, no, no! This cannot be…”
“The dream we hoped to free!”
Have you ever found yourself thinking about considering whether something was worth pondering? What a waste of time! But is it? To waste time is to admit time and to find permissible the idea that there must be something worth doing of greater value than what currently occupies your volition. Yet how would you know if such a thing is true? In fact I propose it to be impossible for you to know if something else would be better or worse at an undisclosed space in a fragmented time. To admit such nonsense is to burden yourself with the despair that whatever you choose for yourself is never good enough. I claim there is no time wasted, only starved appreciation.
The idea that time controls us and can be wasted, that time is money…these are thoughts conditioned upon society by our benefactors. What are institutions? They are organizations designed to subjugate masses to intellectually crafted mechanisms of control. Government. Religion. Academia. Industry. All are institutions of control keeping the masses enslaved to a domineering wealthy few.
We have been conditioned to revere power, to respect authority, to accept a meager existence. And yet it has taken me a great many hours to realize that America, my country, is the revered deceiver. The great Satan. The land of free cogs. The land of those that have been freed from their humanity. Yet we wonder why soldiers are traumatized by destroying the culture of others. Perhaps we are disturbed by cracking the mythical mirrors that forced us to gaze at the fading humanity within.