Wandering
Will
Tragedy
- Where man is in fount of a greater decision than his condition, which will
abide either, will he accept and live in happiness where art is rare and his
catalyst futile or will he accept yet neglect afterwards for there is not much
of him to implore?
The
atoned - See here, gather, read a man full of knowledgeably wonders who
can't even project a mere image of himself without falling deeper in disarray.
Where more gibberish runs through his fingers than his voice dares to speak and
where he suffers 'cause he wants to feel, sheds because he's tired, cries
because of the weight and differs relentlessly on his own because he might
never be wronged. To these enervated brothers I hold, in teared veneer, closer.
These are the depressed not from the abyss but what's after, an illness odd to
find a particular way if not one's own, other than one's own. But let this,
once again, not be foreclosed into the abysmal if not the besiege but those quagmired.
We shed because of the notion that even though we have way to choose, to act as
we were free, results are futile. Consciously aligned yet somewhat time goes
high and nothing splendors. In sum, there may not be a real reason but a
child's tempered feeling. Of all the only thing deemed dignifying is his
somnolence which is held accounted by the inertia of his will! Alas something
worth of writing… for once you found answers you'll want but questions, you'll
want mystery, you'll want the element of darkness.
That
of madness - Proud and serene be if madness renders you, disillusioned of
my small particular lost of it am I. When deepest one is under all that is dark
and nervous the anxiety of wanting clever ground is but the god, once there, to
go back one wants. This is error, you have not tried enough… One losses madness
when one is as calm as a endless note in northern auroral skies, this is
probably not true. Mankind's salvation hedges in madness, his salvation is
fatal to his will.
A
cause - I have resolved my frustration with society, in great resort, and
much is to be resolved in this lostness, but nothing infuriates me more than my
own resolve. Where is my life heading to? I mean: loved but nothing to love but
my futile search for a her, that which I can call "her", in which I
can love "her". I love to know but I'd love to love a someone-body,
someone, a living being with emotions and caring and youthful and dear. The
evident has become clear to no extent, redundancy. But truth written all over
it.
What
duty? - We become clear in that there cannot be a glance in which a ruler,
a construct, an ideal should strict my will. Yet found my will, It also becomes
clear that then which should be my duty? What duty? Is there a time for duty if
not living? Is not living my duty? What if one stroked by my own! But what?!
See, if one has ground, at last, then where to? To there, where happiness
reigns and knowledge is on sludge of a mere apathy to which he cannot break
without knowing what causes it (it might be these words themselves a start of
an explanation!), that way where the sun plucks feathers full of colors that
glare admiration till a pale un-frightened man walks. Or where the answer may
be yet I have not a near thought of.
A
decision - I have thought of breaking my curse by anger against all, in
respect especially of society. This has worked well of course for much of the
revealed is true, it's a lie you see, a game they call common, a ride they all
agree unconsciously-freely and suffocate gladly, honesty has had it's greatest
foe to endure since that of religion. And friends, well theres two type that I
ponder (the rest are just fillers of the play) the pretenders, whom I care but
there anxiety stretches the good of them and leave them naked with there
senseless cynical moves that irritate and spark madness in me of the type I
most exasperate; and the true, relative the word these are the ones that are
truly noble without any moral decree (their own criteria) but a stimulating
will to life that inspire, even those like me. So far I have met one or maybe
two of the latter, the rest of civilization count for the former, of course to
be fair I haven't and will not meet them all.
The
bookkeeper - Moralist in the rearmost. Hide my head, I barely can take
there inconspicuousness.
Redundancy
or salvation - The problem, I'd say, was that I took on the greatest
struggles I had with existence in to my own hands and developed the life and
death situation, to which there was exactly none, that would suffocate later on
my enthusiasm and will. These notions, which all serious being should have a
glimpse at, even the most ignorant, were stretched to the extent of nihilism, a
such that I do not regret but it is what lingers after this that is my current
status and emotions. I still battle over the wrong viewing of the Platonic Ideal
view in which one dreams on and makes believe, such ill nuance escapes my
clarity and becomes my goal. That of love is such which hardly overcomes unless
in a shot-drive of madness. Or should I say hope. But what is hope but that
Ideal's faith! I prefer madness or reason. The battle of Dionysus and Apollo
rages and what a weak battle it is for like creativity and analysis one should
resemble balance of each, it is a dualism like that of life and death: it does
not exist. The final battle ground (or the originate) is mind-body dualism in
which the greatest error has occurred since that of the Theory of Forms!
Must
I reach the decree of finding in sadness and melancholy the finest
contemplations, the highest and lowest, the gentle passive view, the knowledge
of gods of men? Must I remain lenient to this view? I'd like emollient ends,
but is this the one I shall take? The repercussions are so that I prefer to
linger in a state of no definite view-holding but that of pure curiosity and
exquisite knowledge to the present. Stay gaiety! - Sophrosyne
"A bow
eager for its arrow, an arrow eager for its star should man be."
-Nietzsche
I have my bow, I have my arrow, so eager am I for my star that
the tension might break the taut string.
Scripturient,
qualunquismo, mizpah, uitwaaien. For Hygge!
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