Lonely Philosopher
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- Jul 17, 2013
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I found this forum when typing into google: "I am alone" and "I wish I did not exist." I am in solitude no longer. Nevertheless, I feel alone... ergo sum.
With none do I have to share these following machinations of my idle rationalization; my ersatz labyrinth is suffused with an emptiness capable of swallowing many billions more supergiants than grace all the galaxies of our massive cosmic ocean. None who will understand what I say, though I know not else how to filter perceptions.
My desire to strive for persistence subsides by the hour, leaking back into the subatomic with each strained compression of my diaphragm. Or, perhaps it is more appropriate to say it is culled,
like a chrysanthemum so gently nicked, by the parasitic pathogen that invariably follows from the evolution of intelligence.
Fickle and transient we call ourselves "the social animal." The infection of society, perpetually making jest out of Darwin's moral spheres of consideration. Toying with notions of sociality: to love, a fresia, a friend, family, political territory, patriotism, a gang, a federation, a nation. Nothing more than excuses to destroy and hurt, to rise in empty, hollow rank on the backs of the meek. Seeking a seat at the head of an empty kingdom.
To strive for life out of fear for death, such that we divine apocryphal meaning for the heavy toll of compassion; to revel in ignorance; to feel the vitriolic entitlement I see so violently perpetuated in our inflated masquerade of democracy. Ruled by the bloody and barbed iron gauntlet of what I can only name: "society." Information manipulation and trafficking; sophistry. A game of placating the masses to retain the illusion of power among the few; but the masters of the illusion are not the few. No, it's the husks who tear out the very eyes which define their cosmos, who, with idle gaze, sheepishly avert their attention from the lovecraftian horrors emerging from the depths of humanity. Atrophy... But atrophy is no more than an exerted decay. As nothing truly becomes nothing, decay is no more than a splintering into the fractal of quanta; a reversible process. Is this thought such hapless step into the green fields of naivety?
Reversible, but willing to be reversed? One potential future for humanity is akin to that of the universe: stars continue to redshift and the universe expands infinitely, ripping all matter apart into a perpetual stand alone complex. The lethargic, creeping atrophy of kindness; the descent of society into individualistic disassociation and entitlement. Until we are left with a world populated by broken clones of Jon Irenicus. Until the lonely philosopher is to abscond from his endemic asylum, recalling what it is like to be wounded in his deepest depths. To be reminded of love.
According to Kant, one's yearning for persistence only yields when an external force is exerted upon it. No thing of its own devices wishes to stop existing, yet black tendrils lash and erode. I love who I am passionately. I am content with my actions and habits. I have a bright future in theoretical astrophysics or research into new systems of formal logic. Yet, it all seems so worthless without a good friend to hold in the void of night. When a man is haunted by the pain in the world and the lack of any absolute metaphysics. Is it a pernicious thing to desire to abscond from my loneliness by mooring in this tiny port of this vast cosmic shore with an intellectual equal? A friend who cares as deeply for me as I may for them? Or, should I rather strive to once again be content with loneliness? No... that's wrong; I was never content with loneliness. I was content with solitude. Once I tasted the sweet, or glukospikros, nectar of a friend, specifically: the body and soul-filling warmth of a woman who was my intellectual equal, I understood what it meant to feel loved. Rather, then, should I strive to become content with loneliness (for I am the one thing I can be assured will always travel with me)? I wish to return to that place, to find peace in her face. Such an insignificant moment in a grand world, yet more beautiful and amazing, more wonderful in watching her, hidden in the fabric of time... someone who makes me glad that I exist in this simple minkowski two-space, because astronomers and cosmologists and laypersons for potentially billions of years to come will be able to ponder the creation of the primeval atom, to study super novae, to form complex metaphysical theories, to gaze upon the beauty of a star. But I, as common as any sentient being, am allotted the undeserved opportunity of experiencing... love.
Am I naive to want love so strongly? To abscond from loneliness with another person? I think I could manage to do it alone, but I wish... I want to abscond with someone else; together. I want to wait. I don't desire to be wholly and completely satisfied without love. I am a young man; I have existed for barely twenty-one circumnavigations of Sol. When it comes to desiring love... am I naive?
With none do I have to share these following machinations of my idle rationalization; my ersatz labyrinth is suffused with an emptiness capable of swallowing many billions more supergiants than grace all the galaxies of our massive cosmic ocean. None who will understand what I say, though I know not else how to filter perceptions.
My desire to strive for persistence subsides by the hour, leaking back into the subatomic with each strained compression of my diaphragm. Or, perhaps it is more appropriate to say it is culled,
like a chrysanthemum so gently nicked, by the parasitic pathogen that invariably follows from the evolution of intelligence.
Fickle and transient we call ourselves "the social animal." The infection of society, perpetually making jest out of Darwin's moral spheres of consideration. Toying with notions of sociality: to love, a fresia, a friend, family, political territory, patriotism, a gang, a federation, a nation. Nothing more than excuses to destroy and hurt, to rise in empty, hollow rank on the backs of the meek. Seeking a seat at the head of an empty kingdom.
To strive for life out of fear for death, such that we divine apocryphal meaning for the heavy toll of compassion; to revel in ignorance; to feel the vitriolic entitlement I see so violently perpetuated in our inflated masquerade of democracy. Ruled by the bloody and barbed iron gauntlet of what I can only name: "society." Information manipulation and trafficking; sophistry. A game of placating the masses to retain the illusion of power among the few; but the masters of the illusion are not the few. No, it's the husks who tear out the very eyes which define their cosmos, who, with idle gaze, sheepishly avert their attention from the lovecraftian horrors emerging from the depths of humanity. Atrophy... But atrophy is no more than an exerted decay. As nothing truly becomes nothing, decay is no more than a splintering into the fractal of quanta; a reversible process. Is this thought such hapless step into the green fields of naivety?
Reversible, but willing to be reversed? One potential future for humanity is akin to that of the universe: stars continue to redshift and the universe expands infinitely, ripping all matter apart into a perpetual stand alone complex. The lethargic, creeping atrophy of kindness; the descent of society into individualistic disassociation and entitlement. Until we are left with a world populated by broken clones of Jon Irenicus. Until the lonely philosopher is to abscond from his endemic asylum, recalling what it is like to be wounded in his deepest depths. To be reminded of love.
According to Kant, one's yearning for persistence only yields when an external force is exerted upon it. No thing of its own devices wishes to stop existing, yet black tendrils lash and erode. I love who I am passionately. I am content with my actions and habits. I have a bright future in theoretical astrophysics or research into new systems of formal logic. Yet, it all seems so worthless without a good friend to hold in the void of night. When a man is haunted by the pain in the world and the lack of any absolute metaphysics. Is it a pernicious thing to desire to abscond from my loneliness by mooring in this tiny port of this vast cosmic shore with an intellectual equal? A friend who cares as deeply for me as I may for them? Or, should I rather strive to once again be content with loneliness? No... that's wrong; I was never content with loneliness. I was content with solitude. Once I tasted the sweet, or glukospikros, nectar of a friend, specifically: the body and soul-filling warmth of a woman who was my intellectual equal, I understood what it meant to feel loved. Rather, then, should I strive to become content with loneliness (for I am the one thing I can be assured will always travel with me)? I wish to return to that place, to find peace in her face. Such an insignificant moment in a grand world, yet more beautiful and amazing, more wonderful in watching her, hidden in the fabric of time... someone who makes me glad that I exist in this simple minkowski two-space, because astronomers and cosmologists and laypersons for potentially billions of years to come will be able to ponder the creation of the primeval atom, to study super novae, to form complex metaphysical theories, to gaze upon the beauty of a star. But I, as common as any sentient being, am allotted the undeserved opportunity of experiencing... love.
Am I naive to want love so strongly? To abscond from loneliness with another person? I think I could manage to do it alone, but I wish... I want to abscond with someone else; together. I want to wait. I don't desire to be wholly and completely satisfied without love. I am a young man; I have existed for barely twenty-one circumnavigations of Sol. When it comes to desiring love... am I naive?