From morning to night, i stay out of sight, no more than a lie, i barley survived, in a world, overrun... I've spent to long on the inside out, this bleating heart, not beating much...extinguished by light... I turn on the night... Wearing darkness, and an empty smile...something worth living for...
P01 10 1735 09 AE T MD010
Principii existentiale.
Si sunt un om greoi de munte, ca eminescu, fara sa am indrazneala sa ma compar cu el, un pisc. Dar si eu sunt un om greoi de munte. Si de aceea, nimic nu se desface cu suflu de destin daca ma uit in trecutul meu, cu sufulu de destin in mod necesar, ci totul este intamplator. De aceea am fost condamnat sa condamn adevarul. Nu sunt spontan, caut continuu, nu sunt vizitat de inspiratie, totul e inertie, efort continuu rational, ca asta e initiere, cautare personala, caut metodologic mereu o cale catre adevar si nu ajung deloc la el. Si pana la urma ma rezum la ce se intampla in templu, in biserica, in materie de adevar. E vorba de adevar NU de comoditate. Ca sunt incomod ca un batran, parca biologia varstei mi-a luat unele virtuti pe care le-am avut in tinerete si ma deranjeaza. Ceea ce ma deranjeaza enorm e ca nu ajung la adevar cautandu-l. Fiinda cel care-l cautandu-l afla, si-l cauta neafland si nevorbind socratic-crestin, stie nestiind.Eu nu am tins sa devin filozof. Am vrut sa devin legiutitor, ceea ce e cu totul altceva, adica sa ma mut in altii. Legiuitorul este unul care ini lichideaza autoinsatisfactiile revarsandu-se , formal sau juridic in altii. Asta am vrut eu. Eu m-am vazut intotdeauna legiuitor, desi n-a avut ocazia sa fiu. Am fost sfatuitor la diferiti tampiti, si alunecam peste ei ca apa peste ratza...*sarcastic*
Desi sunt bolnav si neajutorat nu imi pare rau ca exist. Incerc eu sa-mi para rau, dar n-are sens, Stiti de ce? Pentru ca eu constat in mod evident, ca exist! Ceea ce ma confisca pesimismului de a ma autonega este evidenta existentei mele. Omul care se sinucide n-a constatat ca e om. N-a reusit sa intuiasca existenta sa. Sa se traiaca pe sine. Eu nu ma pot sinucide, indiferent de starea mea , sanatate sau boale, fiindca nu m-am facut eu. N-am venit cu voia mea pe lumea asta. Si nici n-am sa plec de voia mea din ea. Asta este jocul fundamental al existentei mele.De multe ori imi doream sa mor, am avut mereu lasitatea de-a nu avea curajul sa ma sinucid...Traiesc ca sa scap de amintirile gretoase care puncteaza existenta mea, traiesc ca sa ma detashez, principiul actualitatii. Ca sa scap de obsesia trecutului dramatic, contorsionat, dezgustator pe anumite laturi, nu-i asa, si neomenesc, ma situez in principiul actualitatii permanente.Am avut discipoli, nu se putea sa nu am discipoli , fiindca sunt un om vorbart. Toata suferinta mea se datoreaza poftei mele de a vorbii fara restrictii...Tind sa cred ca nu am destin. M-a protejat Dumnezeu. Destinul nu opereaza la mine. Intamplarile au alergat peste mine, dar n-au reusit sa ma nimiceasca complet. Asta m-a dus cu gandul la Dumnezeu, care e situat desupra tuturor intamplarilor vietii mele.*sau?* Omul.... Hehe... javra asta bipeda, pe care eu il consider animal prost. Homo Bipedus Retardus, atunci cand se screme sa faca singur ordine, adica cand practica umanismul, una din formele grave ale ratacirii omului moder care pleaca din antropocentrismul renasterii. In renastere,"titanii" s-au unflat prin autocunoasterea necunoasterii, ei nu se cunosteau pe ei insisi si au crezut ca s-au descoperit ca oameni...
Desi sunt bolnav si neajutorat nu imi pare rau ca exist. Incerc eu sa-mi para rau, dar n-are sens, Stiti de ce? Pentru ca eu constat in mod evident, ca exist! Ceea ce ma confisca pesimismului de a ma autonega este evidenta existentei mele. Omul care se sinucide n-a constatat ca e om. N-a reusit sa intuiasca existenta sa. Sa se traiaca pe sine. Eu nu ma pot sinucide, indiferent de starea mea , sanatate sau boale, fiindca nu m-am facut eu. N-am venit cu voia mea pe lumea asta. Si nici n-am sa plec de voia mea din ea. Asta este jocul fundamental al existentei mele.De multe ori imi doream sa mor, am avut mereu lasitatea de-a nu avea curajul sa ma sinucid...Traiesc ca sa scap de amintirile gretoase care puncteaza existenta mea, traiesc ca sa ma detashez, principiul actualitatii. Ca sa scap de obsesia trecutului dramatic, contorsionat, dezgustator pe anumite laturi, nu-i asa, si neomenesc, ma situez in principiul actualitatii permanente.Am avut discipoli, nu se putea sa nu am discipoli , fiindca sunt un om vorbart. Toata suferinta mea se datoreaza poftei mele de a vorbii fara restrictii...Tind sa cred ca nu am destin. M-a protejat Dumnezeu. Destinul nu opereaza la mine. Intamplarile au alergat peste mine, dar n-au reusit sa ma nimiceasca complet. Asta m-a dus cu gandul la Dumnezeu, care e situat desupra tuturor intamplarilor vietii mele.*sau?* Omul.... Hehe... javra asta bipeda, pe care eu il consider animal prost. Homo Bipedus Retardus, atunci cand se screme sa faca singur ordine, adica cand practica umanismul, una din formele grave ale ratacirii omului moder care pleaca din antropocentrismul renasterii. In renastere,"titanii" s-au unflat prin autocunoasterea necunoasterii, ei nu se cunosteau pe ei insisi si au crezut ca s-au descoperit ca oameni...
Pe culmile disperarii...
Stand in contemplatie linistita, fixat si suspendat subeternitate si auzind tic-tacul unui ceas sau orice ritm ce ar semnifica progresul in timp, este imposibil sa nu simti toata absurditatea mersului in timp, a mersului mai departe, tot nonsesul evolutiei si al orcarui fel de desfasurare. De ce sa mergi mai departe, de ce sa traiesti in timp? Revelatie subtila a timpului in asftfel de contemplatii, care da acestuia o proeminenta vie si strivitoare,pe care no are niciodata in existenta zilnica, este fructul unui dezgust de viata, al unei incapacitati de a mai continua aceiasipoveste. Si cand aceasta revelatie se intampla in noapte, absurditatea inaintarii in timp se mareste de senzatia unei indescriptibile singuratati, deoarce atunci, departe de oameni, si de lume, ramai singur, cu timpulin fata, intr-o inductbila duualitate. Timpul, in aceasta senzatie de parasire noctura, nu mai e umplut cu nici un lucru, cu nici o actiune, si nici un obiect, ci seamana unui vid ce creste progresiv in existenta, unui vid in continua dilatare si evolutie, ca o amenintare de dincolo de lume. Nu mai poti auzi in linistea si tacerea contemplatie decat ritmarea timpului in tine, sunetul si pocnetul repetat asemenea unui dangat de clopotel intr-o lume moarta. Draa omului si a timpului n-o traieste decat acela care a separat timpul de existenta si care in aceasta diociere fugind de existenta e apasat de timp. Si acela simte cum creste in el timpul mortii.
Singurul lucru care il poate salva pe om, este iubirea. Si desi atatalume a sustinut aceasta afirmate, este a nu fi incercat iubirea, pentru a o declara banalitate. Sa-ti vina sa plangi atunci cand te gandesti la oameni, sa iubesti totul, intr-un sentiment de suprema responsabilitate, sa te apuce o invaluitoare melancolie cand te gandesti si la lacrimile ce inca nu le-ai varsat pentru oameni, iata ce inseamna a te salva prin iubire, singurul izvor al sperantelor.
Oricat m-as lupta, nu vreau si nu pot sa renunt sau sa parasesc iubirea, chair daca disperarile si tristetile ar intuneca izvorul luminos al fiintel mele, deplasat in cine stie ce colturi indepartate ale existentei mele.
Prin orice cadea in lumea asta, numai printr-o mare iubire nu. Iar atunci cand iubirii tale I s-ar raspunde cu dispret sau indiferenta, cand toti oameni te-ar abandona si cand singuratatea ta ar fii suprema parasire, toate razele iubirii tale ce n-au putut patrunde in altii sa-I lumineze sau sa le faca intunericul mai misterios, se vor rasfrange si se vor reintoarce in tine, pentru ca in clipa ultimei parasiri stralucrile lor sa te faca numai lumi si vapaile lor numai caldura. Si atunci intunericul nu va mai fii o atractie irezistibla, si nu te vei mai ameti la viziunea prapastilor si adancimilor.
Dar ca sa ajungi la accesul luminii totale, la extazul absolutei splendori, pe culmile si limtele beatitudinii, dematerlizat de raze si purificat de seninatati,trebuie sa fii scapat definitiv de dialectica luminii si a intunericului, sa fi ajuns la autonomia absoluta a intaiului termen… Dar cine poate avea o iubire atat de mare? ...
Intradevar... He said it better than I could ever :P
Singurul lucru care il poate salva pe om, este iubirea. Si desi atatalume a sustinut aceasta afirmate, este a nu fi incercat iubirea, pentru a o declara banalitate. Sa-ti vina sa plangi atunci cand te gandesti la oameni, sa iubesti totul, intr-un sentiment de suprema responsabilitate, sa te apuce o invaluitoare melancolie cand te gandesti si la lacrimile ce inca nu le-ai varsat pentru oameni, iata ce inseamna a te salva prin iubire, singurul izvor al sperantelor.
Oricat m-as lupta, nu vreau si nu pot sa renunt sau sa parasesc iubirea, chair daca disperarile si tristetile ar intuneca izvorul luminos al fiintel mele, deplasat in cine stie ce colturi indepartate ale existentei mele.
Prin orice cadea in lumea asta, numai printr-o mare iubire nu. Iar atunci cand iubirii tale I s-ar raspunde cu dispret sau indiferenta, cand toti oameni te-ar abandona si cand singuratatea ta ar fii suprema parasire, toate razele iubirii tale ce n-au putut patrunde in altii sa-I lumineze sau sa le faca intunericul mai misterios, se vor rasfrange si se vor reintoarce in tine, pentru ca in clipa ultimei parasiri stralucrile lor sa te faca numai lumi si vapaile lor numai caldura. Si atunci intunericul nu va mai fii o atractie irezistibla, si nu te vei mai ameti la viziunea prapastilor si adancimilor.
Dar ca sa ajungi la accesul luminii totale, la extazul absolutei splendori, pe culmile si limtele beatitudinii, dematerlizat de raze si purificat de seninatati,trebuie sa fii scapat definitiv de dialectica luminii si a intunericului, sa fi ajuns la autonomia absoluta a intaiului termen… Dar cine poate avea o iubire atat de mare? ...
Intradevar... He said it better than I could ever :P
Everything has a crack!
Yesterday my mother gave me a candle and 300 of eggs o sort out. All I
had to do was hold the egg in front of the candle and see if it had
cracks or any imperfections, a hour later she came back, I had 300
eggs inside the bucket,she said I was crazy, but you see, if you look
closely at them you see small cracks, micro-imperfections, everyone of
them was imperfect,everyone of them had a flaw, you just have to look
close enough to see, everything has something small, that if tap long
enough, it will crack...
had to do was hold the egg in front of the candle and see if it had
cracks or any imperfections, a hour later she came back, I had 300
eggs inside the bucket,she said I was crazy, but you see, if you look
closely at them you see small cracks, micro-imperfections, everyone of
them was imperfect,everyone of them had a flaw, you just have to look
close enough to see, everything has something small, that if tap long
enough, it will crack...
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The thing about legends is... sometimes, they're true.
Chapter 23. You can call me Shot. My real name is Paul. What you've read so far is not the whole truth. Much has been changed to protect the innocent... and the guilty. I once read that the only philosophical question that matters is whether or not to commit suicide. I guess that makes me a philosopher. You can say it was my inheritance. She didn't leave a not... just a number. That number followed me from foster home to foster home till college when I met her... I thought she'd help me forget my past’s number. It was a mistake to think I could escape it. I loved her. And I thought she loved me. Until my father's number returned to haunt me. That fucking number... When I circled every 23rd letter of her note... it became clear. The number had gone after me. And now it wanted her. I was right. She was in danger. I just didn't realize the danger was me. What began as a suicide note, turned into something more. Much, much more. "He didn't leave a not... just a number." "not" should be note. Be sure your sin will find you out. - Numbers 32:23
To die there in the street would have been easy. But it wouldn't have been justice, at least not the justice fathers teach their sons about. I'll be sentenced in a week or so. My lawyer says the judge will look kindly upon me for turning myself in. Maybe it's not the happiest of endings, but it's the right one. Some day I'll be up for parole, and we can go on living our lives. It's only a matter of time. Of course, time is just a counting system - numbers with meaning attached to them - isn't it?
There's no such thing as destiny. There are only different choices. Some choices are easy, some aren't. Those are the really important ones, the ones that define us as people.Light is a particle and a wave. This is hard to understand how a thing can be two things at once; but a woman is also both a particle and a wave. She's a wave when you see her reach down to pull a shell from the sea, and you feel her beauty pass through you like electrical current. She's a particle when her hair brushes your face, and her hands push into yours. And a child is also a particle and a wave. He is a wave the sound of his pain shoots through and twists you away from yourself. And he is a particle when a doctor hands you a baby; a small mirror. Women, children and light can be two things at once; a particle, a wave. They ricochet off the hard surfaces and illuminate the corners. Without them it would be far darker. An element loses a particle and becomes unstable. A chain reaction is set in motion. Pulsing waves of desperation in every direction. Perhaps the lost part is clarity or hope. In the fallout, the man-made elements appear- isotopes of fear and anger that cannot be handled safely or buried in the ground. They take the shape of a mushroom cloud started above a desert that circles the globe and shadows us all. The hands on the clock are waving goodbye. It was my grandfather's watch. The dial was painted by hand in America during Word War I. The brides of soldiers seated at long tables dutifully making luminous little sixes and eights to help keep the world free. The eights were particularly hard to make; so the women sucked on the tips of the paintbrushes to bring them to a fine point. One by one, their mouths began to fill with cancer. The radium-based paint they had swallowed bombarded their brains and bones with alpha and beta particles. The women who painted the watch faces sued the US Radium Corporation of West Orange, New Jersey. Had the trial been at night, the breath they used to say goodbye to the world would have glowed like moonlit fog? They were given ten thousand dollars for their lives. I have been thinking about what hurts more: the jar or the pins. And I think I can tell you that it is not the pins. Because the monarch in the jar is already dead when it comes to the pins. At some point things stop hurting; and from inside the jar, with eyes that see in all directions, maybe it is possible to look into the future, well beyond the pins, to where the compass in your head tells you that you need to go. Are you aware of the radiological effects on living organisms? Protons cut through your DNA rewriting your genetic code. The instructions for teeth become the recipe for cancer. Your marrow dies inside your bones taking with it your immune system. The next coughing person will become an infection; the smoke from your cigarette becomes lethal as a bullet. A thousandth of a gram can change a life.
Uranium, Neptunium, Plutonium. They came from space; found their way here by comet and meteorite. No child ever wished this from a star. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl. Problems with half-lives forty-thousand years long. Half a life. Time takes half of us away and comes back later for the rest. We are children and then we are parents. We are long division. Slowly we decay into memory.
In the end, everything decays to lead, number eighty-two on the periodic table. All of the brilliant things born in the center of stars will have turned cold and gray. Everything is moving in that direction. Toward lead. Impossible to stop.
To die there in the street would have been easy. But it wouldn't have been justice, at least not the justice fathers teach their sons about. I'll be sentenced in a week or so. My lawyer says the judge will look kindly upon me for turning myself in. Maybe it's not the happiest of endings, but it's the right one. Some day I'll be up for parole, and we can go on living our lives. It's only a matter of time. Of course, time is just a counting system - numbers with meaning attached to them - isn't it?
There's no such thing as destiny. There are only different choices. Some choices are easy, some aren't. Those are the really important ones, the ones that define us as people.Light is a particle and a wave. This is hard to understand how a thing can be two things at once; but a woman is also both a particle and a wave. She's a wave when you see her reach down to pull a shell from the sea, and you feel her beauty pass through you like electrical current. She's a particle when her hair brushes your face, and her hands push into yours. And a child is also a particle and a wave. He is a wave the sound of his pain shoots through and twists you away from yourself. And he is a particle when a doctor hands you a baby; a small mirror. Women, children and light can be two things at once; a particle, a wave. They ricochet off the hard surfaces and illuminate the corners. Without them it would be far darker. An element loses a particle and becomes unstable. A chain reaction is set in motion. Pulsing waves of desperation in every direction. Perhaps the lost part is clarity or hope. In the fallout, the man-made elements appear- isotopes of fear and anger that cannot be handled safely or buried in the ground. They take the shape of a mushroom cloud started above a desert that circles the globe and shadows us all. The hands on the clock are waving goodbye. It was my grandfather's watch. The dial was painted by hand in America during Word War I. The brides of soldiers seated at long tables dutifully making luminous little sixes and eights to help keep the world free. The eights were particularly hard to make; so the women sucked on the tips of the paintbrushes to bring them to a fine point. One by one, their mouths began to fill with cancer. The radium-based paint they had swallowed bombarded their brains and bones with alpha and beta particles. The women who painted the watch faces sued the US Radium Corporation of West Orange, New Jersey. Had the trial been at night, the breath they used to say goodbye to the world would have glowed like moonlit fog? They were given ten thousand dollars for their lives. I have been thinking about what hurts more: the jar or the pins. And I think I can tell you that it is not the pins. Because the monarch in the jar is already dead when it comes to the pins. At some point things stop hurting; and from inside the jar, with eyes that see in all directions, maybe it is possible to look into the future, well beyond the pins, to where the compass in your head tells you that you need to go. Are you aware of the radiological effects on living organisms? Protons cut through your DNA rewriting your genetic code. The instructions for teeth become the recipe for cancer. Your marrow dies inside your bones taking with it your immune system. The next coughing person will become an infection; the smoke from your cigarette becomes lethal as a bullet. A thousandth of a gram can change a life.
Uranium, Neptunium, Plutonium. They came from space; found their way here by comet and meteorite. No child ever wished this from a star. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl. Problems with half-lives forty-thousand years long. Half a life. Time takes half of us away and comes back later for the rest. We are children and then we are parents. We are long division. Slowly we decay into memory.
In the end, everything decays to lead, number eighty-two on the periodic table. All of the brilliant things born in the center of stars will have turned cold and gray. Everything is moving in that direction. Toward lead. Impossible to stop.
Cugetari intunecate...
Intr-o lume in care totul este instabil, unde nimic nu poate sa dureze si este purtat mereu inainte, in viltoarea grabita a schimbarii, unde daca un om doreste cu orice pret sa ramanana neclintit trebuie sa avanseze si sa miste mereu,asemeni unui acrobat pe o franghie.Intr-o asemenea lume, fericirea este deneconceput. Cum poate dainui intr-o lume in care, asa cum a spus Platon, “ e o Devenire continua si niciodata Fiintare “ cea care este singura forma aexistentei? In primul rand, un om nu este fericit niciodata, dar isi consuma intreaga viata nazuind la ceva ce crede ca il poate face fericit; isi atinge foarte rar scopul, iar atunci cand o face, este doar pentru a fi dezamagit; si de cele mai multe ori, in cele din urma, este un naufragiat ce dupa o lunga calatorie incautarea secretului fericirii pe ocenele lumii ajunge intr-un port cu catargul frant sivelatura sfisiata. Pentru ca abia apoi sa afle ca era totuna daca ar fi fost fericitsau nenorocit; pentru ca intreaga sa viata n-a fost nimic mai mult decit o clipa din prezentul vesnic pieitor; si ca acum, ea s-a sfarsit.
Scenele vietii noastre sant asemeni portretelor schitate in mozaicul brut. Privit de aproape el nu va avea nici un efect. Nu este aici nimic frumos pentru a fi descoperit, in afara de cazul in care te asezi si-l privesti de la o anumita distanta.Tot asa, pentru a castiga ceva la care am ravnit indelung trebuie doar sa descoperi cat de sterp si de inutil este; si chiar daca traim intotdeauna in speranta unor lucruri mai bune, in acelasi timp adesea regretam mult si amarnic ca aceasta clipa a trecut din nou. Privim la prezent ca la ceva ce trebuie pus la timpul viitor si servind doar ca o cale catre telul nostru. De aceea cei mai multi dintre oameni daca isi arunca privirea inapoi atunci cind vor fi la sfirsitul vietii, vor descoperi ca asa s-a petrecut de-a lungul intregii perioade cit ei au trait ”adinterim” vor fi surprinsi sa descopere, ca tocmai lucrul de care nu au tinut seama deloc si l-au lasat sa zboare alungat de tristetile lor, a fost tocmai viata in asteparea careia s-a scurs pe langa ei tot timpul ce le-a fost acordat. Din cati oameni putem gasi unul despre care sa poata fi spus ca speranta n-a facut din el un nebun pana cind a ajuns sa danseze in bratele mortii!
Apoi, din nou, ce creatura nesatula este omul! Fiecare satisfactie pe care o atinge aduna in el semintele unor noi dorinte, astfel incat aici nu exista nici un sfirsit al dorintelor ce se ridica din fiecare vointa individuala. Si de ce se intimpla asta? Motivul real este pur si simplu ca, luata in sine, Vointa este suverana asupra tuturor lumilor; totul ii apartine si de aceea niciun singur lucru nu poate so satisfaca vreodata, ci doar intregul lor, care este fara de sfarsit. Cu toateacestea, trebuie sa stimulam simturile pentru a intelege cit de putin primeste.
Vointa, aceasta stapina a lumii, atunci cand ia forma individuala, de obicei doar atat de putin cat este necesar pentru a mentine un acord in intregul organism. Din acest motiv omul este foarte nefericit. Viata omului trebuie sa fie un fel de gresala. Adevarul acestui lucru va fi suficient de evident daca doar ne reamintim ca omul este alcatuit din nevoi si necesitati greu de satisfacut; si ca chiar atunci cand acestea sant satisfacute, tot ceea ce se obtine este o stare lipsita de suferinta, in care nu-i ramine nimic altceva decat sa fie aruncat prada plictiselii. Aceasta este o dovada directa ca existenta nu are o valoare reala in sine, pentru ca ce altceva este plictiseala decat un sentiment de,desertaciune in viata?
Doar privita la microscop aceasta viata apare atat de mare. Ea este doar un punct invizibil ce este extras si amplificat de puternicele lentilele ale Timpului si Spatiului.
Scenele vietii noastre sant asemeni portretelor schitate in mozaicul brut. Privit de aproape el nu va avea nici un efect. Nu este aici nimic frumos pentru a fi descoperit, in afara de cazul in care te asezi si-l privesti de la o anumita distanta.Tot asa, pentru a castiga ceva la care am ravnit indelung trebuie doar sa descoperi cat de sterp si de inutil este; si chiar daca traim intotdeauna in speranta unor lucruri mai bune, in acelasi timp adesea regretam mult si amarnic ca aceasta clipa a trecut din nou. Privim la prezent ca la ceva ce trebuie pus la timpul viitor si servind doar ca o cale catre telul nostru. De aceea cei mai multi dintre oameni daca isi arunca privirea inapoi atunci cind vor fi la sfirsitul vietii, vor descoperi ca asa s-a petrecut de-a lungul intregii perioade cit ei au trait ”adinterim” vor fi surprinsi sa descopere, ca tocmai lucrul de care nu au tinut seama deloc si l-au lasat sa zboare alungat de tristetile lor, a fost tocmai viata in asteparea careia s-a scurs pe langa ei tot timpul ce le-a fost acordat. Din cati oameni putem gasi unul despre care sa poata fi spus ca speranta n-a facut din el un nebun pana cind a ajuns sa danseze in bratele mortii!
Apoi, din nou, ce creatura nesatula este omul! Fiecare satisfactie pe care o atinge aduna in el semintele unor noi dorinte, astfel incat aici nu exista nici un sfirsit al dorintelor ce se ridica din fiecare vointa individuala. Si de ce se intimpla asta? Motivul real este pur si simplu ca, luata in sine, Vointa este suverana asupra tuturor lumilor; totul ii apartine si de aceea niciun singur lucru nu poate so satisfaca vreodata, ci doar intregul lor, care este fara de sfarsit. Cu toateacestea, trebuie sa stimulam simturile pentru a intelege cit de putin primeste.
Vointa, aceasta stapina a lumii, atunci cand ia forma individuala, de obicei doar atat de putin cat este necesar pentru a mentine un acord in intregul organism. Din acest motiv omul este foarte nefericit. Viata omului trebuie sa fie un fel de gresala. Adevarul acestui lucru va fi suficient de evident daca doar ne reamintim ca omul este alcatuit din nevoi si necesitati greu de satisfacut; si ca chiar atunci cand acestea sant satisfacute, tot ceea ce se obtine este o stare lipsita de suferinta, in care nu-i ramine nimic altceva decat sa fie aruncat prada plictiselii. Aceasta este o dovada directa ca existenta nu are o valoare reala in sine, pentru ca ce altceva este plictiseala decat un sentiment de,desertaciune in viata?
Doar privita la microscop aceasta viata apare atat de mare. Ea este doar un punct invizibil ce este extras si amplificat de puternicele lentilele ale Timpului si Spatiului.
6 Minutes To Midnight, Rain!
Stood in firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of violent new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night. Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. There Was Something Worth Living For. Does that answer your questions, Doctor?
Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No." They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloodly Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers... and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say. Come, dry your eyes, for you are life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of Heisenberg. Come, dry your eyes. And let's go home.She says I am like a god now. I tell her I don't think there is a god. And if there is I'm nothing like him.Honey...Even though you will not read to this point, because I would only agree that a symbolic clock is as nourishing to the intellect as a photo of oxygen to a drowning man...I am disappointed, Very disappointed. Reconstructing myself after the subtraction of my intrinsic field was the first trick I learned.We're all puppets. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings.A live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. Structurally, there's no discernible difference. Life and death are unquantifiable abstracts. Why should I be concerned, Why should I care about the faith of others, when you care a damn about mine?I've walked across the sun. I've seen events so tiny and so fast they hardly can be said to have occurred at all, but you... you are a machine...not a person... And this world's smartest person means no more to me than does its smartest termite. In the end...The morality of my activities escapes me...but... Nothing ends...nothing ends... death is not an end to a cause that has not been finished...but only the beginning to a verdict... to something more than death can take away. The only verdict,remains vengeance.
Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No." They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloodly Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers... and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say. Come, dry your eyes, for you are life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of Heisenberg. Come, dry your eyes. And let's go home.She says I am like a god now. I tell her I don't think there is a god. And if there is I'm nothing like him.Honey...Even though you will not read to this point, because I would only agree that a symbolic clock is as nourishing to the intellect as a photo of oxygen to a drowning man...I am disappointed, Very disappointed. Reconstructing myself after the subtraction of my intrinsic field was the first trick I learned.We're all puppets. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings.A live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. Structurally, there's no discernible difference. Life and death are unquantifiable abstracts. Why should I be concerned, Why should I care about the faith of others, when you care a damn about mine?I've walked across the sun. I've seen events so tiny and so fast they hardly can be said to have occurred at all, but you... you are a machine...not a person... And this world's smartest person means no more to me than does its smartest termite. In the end...The morality of my activities escapes me...but... Nothing ends...nothing ends... death is not an end to a cause that has not been finished...but only the beginning to a verdict... to something more than death can take away. The only verdict,remains vengeance.
There WAS always a choice...
One thing I learned in the last 7 years, in every game of chess, there is always an opponent, and there is always a victim the trick is to know when you’re the victim, so you know when you become, the hunter...And here is the cause and effect. Don’t like to feel trapped, never did, never will, why should a man do, what he doesn't like to do? There’s always a choice, what’s wrong with mine? Now, I’ve got to spend the next period shaking, and sweating, like a crackwhore clacking for a fix... should have taken my choice...cause it's getting very... very... tight in here. The harder the battle, the sweeter the victory. A wise man once told me, there's only one rule in this world. A small question that drives all success...The more a man invests in that question, the more powerful that man will become. Can you guess what that question is? WHAT’S ... IN.... IT...FOR ... ME?! So what's in it for me? You got a big mouth on a small head sunshine...30 seconds and you can be on your way. I don't think so, not today. If there is one thing I learned about experts, it's that they're experts at fuck all, if there's a rule, you can bend it, if there's a law, you can break it, from now on, I’m breaking all the rules, because desperate man, do desperate deeds. We are...and I apologize for the unnecessarily dramatic monocure, lone sharks, people hate and fear us, lust like YOU will learn to hate and fear us, we know how much you love a dollar bill, and it won’t be easy watching them fall through your hands, because it will be your money, that we'll be loaning...Don't say a word. Maybe I am being conned, maybe i am being fooled. They say the sentence has been passed, the certificate tied, so what's the point? The point is, this is the only option, if you snap those fingers at me again, I’ll fucking break them. It’s a strange thing but, I still don't like to give it away. I know i can't take it with me, so why the pain? Why the fuck, does it still hurt? And looking at the face of these to shits doesn’t make it any easier. What did i sign up for? I try to make sense out of it, not now, cause it doesn't make sense just know if you start a job, then finish it!
There is something about yourself that you don’t know. Something that you will deny even exists, until it’s to late to do anything about it. It’s the only reason you get up in the morning, only reason you suffer the blood, the sweat and the tears. This is because you want people to know how good, attractive, generous, funny, wild and clever… you really are. Fear or revere me, but pleaseeee… think I’m special. We share an addiction, we’re approval junkies, we’re all in it for the slap on the back and the gold watch, the hip-hip-hoo-fucking-raw, look at the clever kid with the badge, polishing his trophy , shine on you crazy diamond…Because we’re just monkeys, wrapped in suits, begging for the approval of others. If we knew this then we wouldn’t do this, someone is hiding it from us, and, if you had a second chance you would ask … Why? Why am I still alive? Ahhh… I know you’re still there, cause I can feel you dying, I can hear you, tapping me for a little nutrition, like those clacking for a fix, it gets a little tight in here… well , you’re not wrong, cause the walls are moving in… no food here, not today sunshine…my eyes are opened and the restaurant is closed, jog on, slide off, find someone else to fill your pipe, someone who won’t see you coming, or know, when you’re there… Look at me honey… You like to play silly games with my head, don’t you? You don’t play by the rules…I’m a fucking survivor, I’m a winner, shut up and leave me alone, it choses it's hiding place very carefully, I can’t let it kill me, you’re weak, it’s too late, you’re a dead man anyway, you’ll be dead before you fall, black magic, no one gets away, get control of yourself, it’s anything but under control, isn’t it? It’s going to kill me, it’ll kill me, where’s your pride? WHERE’S YOUR PRIDE? I’d rather kill myself, than let it kill me… why isn’t it scared? It’s just staring at me…I’m a dead man….can it? It’ can’t kill a dead man can it? You can’t even do it, can you?
The greatest scam, that he ever pulled, was making you believe, that you… are him…
When you’re winning, who thinks about losing? But when you’re faced with what I’m looking at, a new and cold reality dawns, a fact that we like to ignore, you can not win, the only prize they guarantee when you do play this game, is that you will lose. It’s only a question, of when? (You only get smarter by playing a smarter opponent (Fundamentals of chess 1833))
Why is it dragging this on? It can just clean me out in one hit…It wants me to suffer. This twisted bastard is making me pay, pay for my own pain… and hence this is the most radical concept I ever heard of… a part of me dies every time I think about it. Keep telling myself, this is my last round…you can tear me up piece by piece, but this, I can’t take, it found a weakness…caught me fair and square, cross hands, blind folded, one foot in the grave and two hands on the coffin, I’m cooked, well done, stick a fork in me and see if bleed…Check mate… I’m stuck, in a trance, somewhere, between hell and a hard place, and a gear that doesn’t exist, and what I want now, is a little piece of…
There is something about yourself that you don’t know. Something that you will deny even exists, until it’s to late to do anything about it. It’s the only reason you get up in the morning, only reason you suffer the blood, the sweat and the tears. This is because you want people to know how good, attractive, generous, funny, wild and clever… you really are. Fear or revere me, but pleaseeee… think I’m special. We share an addiction, we’re approval junkies, we’re all in it for the slap on the back and the gold watch, the hip-hip-hoo-fucking-raw, look at the clever kid with the badge, polishing his trophy , shine on you crazy diamond…Because we’re just monkeys, wrapped in suits, begging for the approval of others. If we knew this then we wouldn’t do this, someone is hiding it from us, and, if you had a second chance you would ask … Why? Why am I still alive? Ahhh… I know you’re still there, cause I can feel you dying, I can hear you, tapping me for a little nutrition, like those clacking for a fix, it gets a little tight in here… well , you’re not wrong, cause the walls are moving in… no food here, not today sunshine…my eyes are opened and the restaurant is closed, jog on, slide off, find someone else to fill your pipe, someone who won’t see you coming, or know, when you’re there… Look at me honey… You like to play silly games with my head, don’t you? You don’t play by the rules…I’m a fucking survivor, I’m a winner, shut up and leave me alone, it choses it's hiding place very carefully, I can’t let it kill me, you’re weak, it’s too late, you’re a dead man anyway, you’ll be dead before you fall, black magic, no one gets away, get control of yourself, it’s anything but under control, isn’t it? It’s going to kill me, it’ll kill me, where’s your pride? WHERE’S YOUR PRIDE? I’d rather kill myself, than let it kill me… why isn’t it scared? It’s just staring at me…I’m a dead man….can it? It’ can’t kill a dead man can it? You can’t even do it, can you?
The greatest scam, that he ever pulled, was making you believe, that you… are him…
When you’re winning, who thinks about losing? But when you’re faced with what I’m looking at, a new and cold reality dawns, a fact that we like to ignore, you can not win, the only prize they guarantee when you do play this game, is that you will lose. It’s only a question, of when? (You only get smarter by playing a smarter opponent (Fundamentals of chess 1833))
Why is it dragging this on? It can just clean me out in one hit…It wants me to suffer. This twisted bastard is making me pay, pay for my own pain… and hence this is the most radical concept I ever heard of… a part of me dies every time I think about it. Keep telling myself, this is my last round…you can tear me up piece by piece, but this, I can’t take, it found a weakness…caught me fair and square, cross hands, blind folded, one foot in the grave and two hands on the coffin, I’m cooked, well done, stick a fork in me and see if bleed…Check mate… I’m stuck, in a trance, somewhere, between hell and a hard place, and a gear that doesn’t exist, and what I want now, is a little piece of…
Vagaries of perception
Why do you do it? Why get up? Why keep fighting? Do you believe you're fighting for something? For more than your survival? Can you tell me what it is? Do you even know? Is it freedom or truth? Perhaps peace could it be for love? Illusions! Vagaries of perception! Temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect trying desperately to justify a existence that is without meaning or purpose, and all of them as artificial as words them self! Although only a human mind could invent something as insipid as love! You must be able to see it, you must know it by now, you can't win, it's pointless to continue fighting…Why? Why?! Why do you persist!?!Wait…I've seen this…This is the end…yes… You we're laying right there, just like that…and I… I stand here…Right here… And I'm suppose to say something…let me see…. Everything that has a beginning has a end…What? What did I just say?!No… This isn't right… This can't be right!
Ruperi de echilibru...
O violenta suferinta morala poate cauza intamplari teribile si neasteptate. Explicatia se afla in faptul ca durerea ia proportiile unui eveniment real. Daca acest eveniment este limitat in timp (trecator) durerea este suportabila. Dar o durere nesfarsita devine cugetare, stare obsesiva, dominand spiritul si memoria afectiva. Sfarsitul unei asemenea stari este ruperea echilibrului, dezorganizarea, dezintegrarea constienta sau inconstienta...
Vazuta de departe si de sus, viata fiecarui om, in intregul lui si in ceea ce il caracterizeaza, se prezinta totdeauna ca un spectacol dramatic; luata in amanunt, ea are caracterul unei comedii.Dorintele nesatisfacute, sperantele nerealizate, greselile intregii vieti, suferinta sfarsind in moarte sunt o tragedie. Existenta umana cuprinde toate nefericirile unei tragedii, fara ca omul sa poata atinge demnitatea personajelor tragice. Omul este nevoit sa atinga tragicul parcurgind deci etape comice. Cum s-ar spune, amanuntele ne fac ridicoli.Istoria popoarelor nu este deci o insiruire de razboaie si revolutii. Anii de pace sunt pauze scurte intre acte risipite. Nu este o metafora cand spunem ca viata fiecarui om este o lupta continua, cu mizeria, cu plictiseala, cu semenii sai, cu realitatea. Omul gaseste adversari pretutindeni si moare cu armele in miini. Dar existenta noastra nu este posibila fara toate acestea. Fara presiunea exercitata de atmosfera corpul plesneste; tot asa, lipsa durerii, mizeriei, a necazurilor si nevoilor de tot felul ar provoca o crestere nemasurata a orgoliului frizand extravaganta. Oricare om are nevoie de griji, de mizerie, de durere, asa cum nava are nevoie de balast pentru a pluti singura si drept catre tinta.
Vazuta de departe si de sus, viata fiecarui om, in intregul lui si in ceea ce il caracterizeaza, se prezinta totdeauna ca un spectacol dramatic; luata in amanunt, ea are caracterul unei comedii.Dorintele nesatisfacute, sperantele nerealizate, greselile intregii vieti, suferinta sfarsind in moarte sunt o tragedie. Existenta umana cuprinde toate nefericirile unei tragedii, fara ca omul sa poata atinge demnitatea personajelor tragice. Omul este nevoit sa atinga tragicul parcurgind deci etape comice. Cum s-ar spune, amanuntele ne fac ridicoli.Istoria popoarelor nu este deci o insiruire de razboaie si revolutii. Anii de pace sunt pauze scurte intre acte risipite. Nu este o metafora cand spunem ca viata fiecarui om este o lupta continua, cu mizeria, cu plictiseala, cu semenii sai, cu realitatea. Omul gaseste adversari pretutindeni si moare cu armele in miini. Dar existenta noastra nu este posibila fara toate acestea. Fara presiunea exercitata de atmosfera corpul plesneste; tot asa, lipsa durerii, mizeriei, a necazurilor si nevoilor de tot felul ar provoca o crestere nemasurata a orgoliului frizand extravaganta. Oricare om are nevoie de griji, de mizerie, de durere, asa cum nava are nevoie de balast pentru a pluti singura si drept catre tinta.
The Mask.
Please Don't be fooled by me. Don't be fooled by the face I wear. For I wear a thousand masks, masks that I am afraid to take off and none of them are me.I give the impression that I am secure, and all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without, that confidence is my name...that the waters are calm and I am in command. But don't believe me, please. My surface may seem smooth, but my surface is my mask. Beneath this lies real me in confusion, in fear, and aloneness. But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know. I panic at the thought of my weakness and fear of being exposed. That is why I frantically create a mask to hide behind...to help me pretend, to shield me from the glance that knows. But such a glance is precisely my salvation. My only salvation. And I know it. That is, if it is only followed by acceptance, if it is followed by love. It is the only thing that will assure me of what I can't assure myself, that I am worth something. Only you can call me into aliveness. Each time you try to understand and because you really care, my heart begins to grow wings, very small wings, very feeble wings, but wings. You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble, you alone can remove my mask. You alone can release me from my shadow world.
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