6 more posts in this thread. [Missing image file: im inter.png]
I hate when it rains, cause in puddles I encounter this guy
Unable to give a rebuttal but swift as the pain flood his eyes
wonderin why he's a gift with no purpose
A priceless one-of-a-kind piece that's worthless
Grounded with no surface
And when he shows one, it's of sod
Cause inside he fights feelings that he was mistake by God
I see his confusion and self-deception
Questions of relevance and intelligence
He holds an illusion of self-acceptance
that he shows to those outside lookin in
He's outside lookin in to his own life; lookin for strength
to carry on as a pawn in this chess game of existance
In his mind he wants to go on to the dawn
and leave the stress that came with existance
Hopin in death he'll find life
Cause as he lives, he roams the dark, tryin to find light
He's made his heart so hard, he doesn't even cry anymore
Cause he's confronted sorrow frequently
His heart's been broken frequently
It's like he's lost some part of him and just haven't found it yet
So in his search, he's left with nothin but questions and regret
All he wants to know is how one day, he's content
and the next day he's cryin
cause his life isn't what he thought life meant
He just wants to be happy, with his love and all
But too often I get messages through telepathic calls
He's askin me through a puddle what more must he endure to continue
But for some reason he knows he most endure to continue
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>"Man never regards what he possesses as so much his own, as what he does; and the labourer who tends a garden is perhaps in a truer sense its owner, than the listless voluptuary who enjoys its fruits…In view of this consideration, it seems as if all peasants and craftsman might be elevated into artists; that is, men who love their labour for its own sake, improve it by their own plastic genius and inventive skill, and thereby cultivate their intellect, ennoble their character, and exalt and refine their pleasures. And so humanity would be ennobled by the very things which now, though beautiful in themselves, so often serve to degrade it…But, still, freedom is undoubtedly the indispensable condition, without which even the pursuits most congenial to individual human nature, can never succeed in producing such salutary influences. Whatever does not spring from a man’s free choice, or is only the result of instruction and guidance, does not enter into his very being, but remains alien to his true nature; he does not perform it with truly human energies, but merely with mechanical exactness, we may admire what he does, but we despise what he is."
12 more posts in this thread. [Missing image file: Ken+Wilber+highres_67763.jpg]
Are the mystics and sages insane? Because they all tell variations on the same story, don't they? The story of awakening one morning and discovering you are one with the All, in a timeless and eternal and infinite fashion.
Yes, maybe they are crazy, these divine fools. Maybe they are mumbling idiots in the face of the Abyss. Maybe they need a nice, understanding therapist. Yes, I'm sure that would help. But then, I wonder.
Maybe the evolutionary sequence really is from matter to body to mind to soul to spirit, each transcending and including, each with a greater depth and greater consciousness and wider embrace. And in the highest reaches of evolution, maybe, just maybe, an individual's consciousness does indeed touch infinity — a total embrace of the entire Kosmos — a Kosmic consciousness that is Spirit awakened to its own true nature.
It's at least plausible. And tell me: is that story, sung by mystics and sages the world over, any crazier than the scientific materialism story, which is that the entire sequence is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying absolutely nothing? Listen very carefully: just which of those two stories actually sounds totally insane?
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"What is Bazarov?" Arkady smiled. "Would you like me to tell you, uncle, what he really is?"
"Please do, nephew."
"He is a nihilist!"
"What?" asked Nikolai Petrovich, while Pavel Petrovich lifted his knife in the air with a small piece of butter on the tip and remained motionless.
"He is a nihilist," repeated Arkady.
"A nihilist," said Nikolai Petrovich. "That comes from the Latin nihil, nothing, as far as I can judge; the word must mean a man who... who recognizes nothing?"
"Say — who respects nothing," interposed Pavel Petrovich and lowered his knife with the butter on it.
"Who regards everything from the critical point of view," said Arkady.
"Isn't that exactly the same thing?" asked Pavel Petrovich.
"No, it's not the same thing. A nihilist is a person who does not bow down to any authority, who does not accept any principle on faith, however much that principle may be revered."
"Well, and is that good?" asked Pavel Petrovich. "That depends, uncle dear. For some it is good, for others very bad."
"Indeed. Well, I see that's not in our line. We old-fashioned people think that without principles, taken as you say on faith, one can't take a step or even breathe. Vous avez changé tout cela; may God grant you health and a general's rank, and we shall be content to look on and admire your... what was the name?"
"Nihilists," said Arkady, pronouncing very distinctly.
"Yes, there used to be Hegelists and now there are nihilists. We shall see how you will manage to exist in the empty airless void; and now ring, please, brother Nikolai, it's time for me to drink my cocoa."
Why don't you read /lit/'s most fitting coming of age story?
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This is probably the only poem I ever liked and I was wondering you could recommend me something similar?
All Hail the New Human
Large sex is in a little machine & that porn star
didn’t cross the borders, the borders blurred &
now the socialist utopia is one big gangbang.
You are flaccid if you’re not at this party & it’s
hardcore, no fucktards allowed, cokewhores that
suck cock for 2 hours are favorable. The V.I.Ps
will never point the camera at themselves.
Ideas can be demons, like Malice they travel
through the crowd, deliverance, even to the liberated,
exhilarating as a dirty orgasm by the underpass.
The new humans are both predators & victims
of themselves, a collective hypnotic oblivion,
the autoeroticism of women an industry,
of men - a great phallic edifice on the global
mind. When do the swans on this septic pond
decline, with their noble arched necks fishing
among the shit, feculent feathers, cumdumpters
for beast freaks out dogging the gardens at sunset.
There are pearl divers among the swine people,
and those that would eat the corn from their
master’s leavings, farms of flesh mannequins
silhouetted in a Goya hell downloading granny