Libertines, Tyrants, and Man.

Thursday, January 10th, 2008 UTC

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.

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Lukewarm

Thursday, December 6th, 2007 UTC

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.