Endeavour of life.

A slip o’ green grows
struggling, amidst a patch of
dry, deserted land.

Libertines, Tyrants, and Man.

If only Man could live like those other
freethinkers who exist o’er existence.
Libertines past humanity’s wonder;
those who love for its sake, without pretence.
But Man berates himself for such amours.

If only Man could live fearless of those
who dare oppress and punish other men.
Yet ’tis naught but o’ fancy an o’erdose;
Oppressors are no more than other men
and Man himself is the only Tyrant.

Alas, there’s yet more for Man’s sweet dolour.
If it be regarded in true candour
what he loves and fears most is ev’ryone.
Libertines, Tyrants, and Man, all are one.

Lukewarm

Man sat under the radiant sun one of those eternal evenings. He could not help but to feel and admire what was around him. As Zephyr swept the broad plains that lie before his sight, Man felt a burning desire; the craving to be, even though just for an instant—ephemeral as himself—, the mighty wind. The thought of wind flew across his mind evoking thoughts of times long-gone, and even those of times to come. Man imagined the past and the future merging as one in Present. Zephyr had seen the days of yore, and would live to see the death of Father Time.

Man was overwhelmed to think of things so far beyond his reach. Desperate he did cry out in distress; a cry so deep it could have made consciousness itself give a shriek. The wind proved impassible at his screams. To this, Man broke into laughter where he stood—the wind roaring around him, menacing— and thought a rather comforting thought; that, as immutable as the wind was, it was unable to feel. It could run across endless fields and shake forests rooted in ancient grounds, yet it could not take pleasure in it nor appreciate the solemnity of the dignified trees. The wind was on the skin like soft petals, yet it could not feel the tenderness caressing back.

Zephyr, with all its might, could not entertain thought; without thought, unaware of himself, Man could not possibly exist—and what business has man, then, to be the wind if the wind does not think, does not feel? Man’s craving died, gradually decomposing into lukewarm afterthoughts.

Rain smells of thoughts adrift.

Monsieur Sartre used to say, “existence precedes essence;” the usual “cogito, ergo sum” is interestingly twisted into “sum, ergo cogito.” In the logic that things can indeed exist, but their meaning is not defined by their mere existence; existence itself is meaningless. Meaning, the essence, is devised from cognition. Wherefrom comes cognition? From existence. Thought is then, the basis of meaning. What meaning can anybody, or anything have if its very essence is not yet defined by cognition? It is in this logic that it is impossible for the average bloke to live a truly meaningful life without thinking upon what surrounds him.

“Elaborate?” Yes, yes, at the risk of falling into a pit of reification fallacy, I shall commence:

For the sake of the argument, let us assume the following premise as true: “meaning is devised uniquely from cognition.” This premise is logical, considering that cognition is required to understand any meaning, and hence, even if existence itself carried a meaning, it would be purposeless as it could not be understood without cognition. Now, if meaning is uniquely devised from cognition, it is fundamental for any individual to be aware of their environment in order for their lives to attain a certain meaning; as there would be no cognition without being aware of existence and no meaning without cognition.

“Sweet beans!” you snap, as you do not yet see a connection between all this blabber and rain. Taking into consideration the fact of rain existing within the environment, any individual aware of their environment would be aware of rain; and any individual unaware of rain, would be unaware of their environment. For the purpose of practicality, being unaware is of as little use as not being concerned about what happens in the environment. People who are oblivious of rain are then not devising meaning from cognition, as cognition requires awareness. And without meaning, there is no transcendence.

Individuals naïve and light-minded enough to leave rain unattended are just as likely to leave out several other details outside their scope of reality. Reducing and nullifying the awareness wherefrom cognition derives meaning. It is then sensitive to conclude that a person careful enough to attend such a quotidian detail as rain is far more likely to derive meaning and reach transcendence than an everyman who refuses to do so.

The light-minded blokes, oblivious to their surroundings, are then e’er more gullible and likely to live their lives up to the meaning devised by somebody else —and living a transcendence that is not theirs.

Rhetoric set aside, I will go watch the rain.

Words of a Sentimentalist

Sentimentality is a criminally misunderstood notion.

Words like “love” have taken connotations so ridiculous and so tired that all beauty is gone from them. The word has become a blasphemy to its true meaning.

To the conventional person, feelings have become awkward, obsolete things, the consolations of those left behind, a trifle, a waste of valuable time.

The conventional person lives his life not only suppressing his emotions, but ignoring them with all his might. He is thus miserably defeated by them. What are psychologists, but those otherworldly saviors that teach him how to “cope” with his feelings, which he takes such trouble to eschew?

Reasoning without feelings should never be attempted, because the ensuing thoughts will be worth nothing. A machine can think objectively. An animal cannot think. What business does man have, then, thinking objectively or not thinking at all? There is no greater joy for man than the innocent hedonism of sentimentality. Everything is slightly more charming when ambiguous or misinterpreted.

The conventional person is boring, and this is an unforgivable fault.

Solitude

An instant of peace;
The caress of zephyr comes,
reminder of life.

Whimsical Perambulation

This a tale, of a dream, of a train.
Not any machine, only plain and mundane.
Of joy and fantasy, a locomotive.
Cast with magic, without a motive.

Holding still, the world moves around it.
In present, and past, and future you’ll find it.
In order to spot it, you must not be searching.
Open your heart, and it won’t be hiding.
Calling your name with it’s touching “choo-choo,”
Sooner or later it’ll come across you.

Two girls and a boy, together were riding,
On the magical train late one evening.
Dreaming and laughing, and waving at strangers,
The magical train had delightful passengers.

Around and around the palace of dreams they sailed
kindling souls of bystanders with rapture thinly veiled
In the undaunted little blue car that cruised so far
Way beyond kiosk, coffee-house, and sushi bar.

The lights always glaring so jovial, so friendly,
Harmoniously gleaming on shoppes in an alley.
“A sweet surprise, what a twist!”
The children would say as they whirled through the mist.

The train was a-flying,
Over the people a-staring.
What a gaze! What a chance!
Magical train! An instant romance!

Once eager passengers, souls become oblivious.
However, the train, is ever so spacious.
Being inviting, you should wave at strangers,
As they might become the train’s future passengers.

Le Penseur and his vexations

In the end, what we should pay attention to is not our thoughts in themselves, but what we think about our thoughts.

If we latch onto a thought, it is not the thought which matters, but the latching. No matter how genius a thought it could have been, if we adhere to it it stagnates and we are not geniuses, but close-minded idiots.

If we advertise a thought, we achieve a similar result.

If we are reluctant to harbor a thought, then this thought has shamed us.

If we lovingly and intensely admire a thought, only then we are well-justified to think it.

Midday

A warm autumn day
the sun perches at zenith,
kindling thoughts of yore.

Vers Libre

A thunder tears the horizon,
a second spans throughout infinity
and the mighty beast, tamed, vanishes.
Once unconquerable, it is engulfed in an abyss;
diminished by the shadows of its own grandeur.
As fast as it came, it is now gone;
ephemeral, it dies without a past or future,
never to be seen again.