by Post Eschaton Punk Thu Jun 27, 2019 7:53 pm
Luckily it doesn’t matter what is bad or good.
I wouldn’t take anyone’s word on any of it.
Oh my.
It really doesn’t matter.
If we were all like Walt Whitman there would be no suicide or even any deep conservation with our being.
Consider that what is escalating is a collective conversation with the mystery at the heart of each of us.
This is very satisfying to me.
I give a deep nod and breath to it all.
This is about Being.
Religious people know their being, but they project idols all over it and cover it up.
They don’t feel worthy to meet themselves.
A tragedy.
And a comedy.
Disclosure makes me feel poetic, feel the tide of being lapping at our feet.
Always there is the tormentor tormenting us.
I know how to deal with that.
Double down on just being this and stare at it straight on.
“The City is of Night, but not of Sleep;
There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain;
The pitiless hours like years and ages creep,
A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain
Of thought and consciousness which never ceases,
Or which some moments’ stupor but increases,
This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane.
They are most rational and yet insane:
And outward madness not to be controlled;
A perfect reason in the central brain,
Which has no power, but sitteth wan and cold,
And sees the madness, and foresees as plainly
The ruin in its path, and trieth vainly
To cheat itself refusing to behold.
There is no God; no fiend with names divine
Made us and tortures us; if we must pine,
It is to satiate no Being’s gall.
Wherever men are gathered, all the air
Is charged with human feeling, human thought;
Each shout and cry and laugh, each curse and prayer,
Are into its vibrations surely wrought;
Unspoken passion, wordless meditation,
Are breathed into it with our respiration
It is with our life fraught and overfraught.
So that no man there breathes earth’s simple breath,
As if alone on mountains or wide seas;
But nourishes warm life or hastens death
With joys and sorrows, health and foul disease,
Wisdom and folly, good and evil labours,
Incessant of his multitudinous neighbors
He in his turn affecting all of these.
That City’s atmosphere is dark and dense,
Although not many exiles wander there,
With many a potent evil influence,
Each adding poison to the poisoned air;
Infections of unutterable sadness,
Infections of incalculable madness,
Infections of incurable despair.”
—James Thomson, The City of Dreadful Night (1874)
And this guy didn’t even live in the 20th century.
We, the People, have Prevailed...
...over our own ignorance.
The evil is needed
As well as the sweet good
To bring us into contact
With the burning sun within us all
While I may be it’s shadow
It has touched me
I have let my self be touched
And blossomed where I stand
What meaning in it is mine
An interesting time to be alive
And a curse
Perhaps yet
We shall find our rest
And be filled with flowers
Last edited by smelly on Thu Jun 27, 2019 8:15 pm; edited 1 time in total
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