Ishmael Run; So begins the Journey.
Thoughts lead thusly; there is no death, only the fulfilment of purpose. We live relatively long and for that period of being and becoming we mostly find a petty meaning for ourselves but in this we stand wrongly. This is a sick joke we are involved in, there is a dark underlying purpose that eventually swallows us all into the ground to become a part of something monumental; the compilation of events known as history.
I am no cynic, and neither am I depressed, ashamed or even slightly darkened by this thought, on the contrary it is this knowledge that allows me to live. Without such inspiration life would be empty, totally and utterly discredited. Because there is enlightenment, to know the meaning to life as it is to end it, there may be ease within the world and no pitfalls of delusion or false hopes to fall into. I need not to push beyond myself or anyone else, I have no reason to attend to anything, is this a freedom?
Although, do not listen or take heed too much of what i have to say, we are afterall only the blind leading the blind
The knack of evolution has been lost in a flurry of Televisions, computers, fast food, consumer complexes, all devices to steal the process of thought and create an illusion of contentment.
this is no revolution.
But who am i? Who am I to comment so boldly on the degradation of man and lay out the pathway to salvation? Well, in truth I am no one. No one particularly adverse in anything at all, I simply exist. Like the underground man, I was spiritually sick and that sickness drove my spirit to death, and now I am free! I am enlightened and my burden is lighter for it, but if the truth is to be told there is nothing special about me. It is the conclusion of a lifetime that anyone could come to, before my eyes were opened, I knew nothing. Now, I know I knew nothing and I now know I still know nothing since it is simple; there really is nothing to know. Since everything you know you only think you know, why think of it? And this is the trouble with our current state of existence; we are duped into believing there is something to know and something to gain through the advancement of knowledge when really, it is to no gain to gain knowledge. They say knowledge is power but, the trick my friends, is that knowledge is a pack of wolves dressed in snowy coats. People who are in the know are so sure of themselves that nothing else could be right, people in the know believe their words are powerful, how wrong they are. You may say knowledge is power because those who have the knowledge to build bombs are powerful, they are powerful ideas and powerful Ideas are stolen by nations for their own purpose and gain. It is not knowledge, but resource. However if all these intellectualls are wrong, how even more wrong we are for elevating them on pedestals! Those who know believe their vast knowledge amounts to something but in truth brothers, it leads to nothing since we all share the same inevitable fate. Some may talk about how those who are wise or those who know, live a life that matters, a life with substance, but unless they abandon their meaning of, and the importance they place on knowledge they will never live a life of substance. If the world is based upon paradox, then it is in nothing that the substance of true life is. That is half the point in life, right? To find meaning and truth and all that guru fulfilment crap we have shouted at us from every corner, but I speak logical sense brothers when I say that the world is corrupt, and due to its self inflicted corruption you can trust nothing that comes from it. Because of the nature of truth, truth is something that can be portrayed through lies and so continues the pattern of the paradox, in that way a misanthrope does more for humanity than the praised philanthropist.
Something we must all look into at one stage or another on this terminal walk called life is who are these fellow pilgrims? The drunks, the smackheads, the dropouts, the insane, the depressed, the clinical, the lost and beyond, the type of people who colour life with variety. Just where are they? Those who have overcome life and succeeded its brutal shapes, forms and sizes. It is something everyone ought to ask and they are a people whom everyone ought to seek out.
indulge me and let me tell you a story of something I knew once.
An untimely death**
I met with something remarkable today, an experience I have not to this moment known, I fear it has crashed like a meteor into my brain and will leave its weighty crater for some time to come. I witnessed the death of a young man; an untimely death. The fulfilment of his journey caused by his own actions and now, where is he? He exists in memories, he exists in my memory. He has handed his existence over to me and I must choose what to do with it; whether to discard it and have him lost in the shadows or whether to create something of significance to him and he will rest in the illuminated paths of history? If I discard him he will continue in another memory, in a number of other memories I’m sure but to me, he will be dead and no one will see or know him ever again, what anyone else might think of him, is by definition, meaningless to me.
My memory of him is this; as a blur of colour and heightened emotion he rain past me on the platform at Waterloo underground, I barely caught his face except for a piercing glimpse of his eyes. Dressed in bohemian colours he was there and like the most eloquent dancer he jumped with glory, his legs bent back and up, his arms raised to praise his fate and then he was gone. Replaced with a loud crashing thunderous echo and flashes of red and white, red and white and then, everything was gone, all was calm on Waterloo underground. Everyone seemed amazed, people around me covered their faces in their hands, or hid their eyes, I could not stop gazing at the spot from which he made his final leap into a state of conclusion. That was it though, he was concluded and everything he may have ever worked for, lived through or experienced was concluded in those final moments; the most magnificent and pulchritudinous thing i, or anyone of us could ever only watch, performed by the greatest actor of our lives.
You see my comrades, the truth is the greatest theatrical shows are those that make an impression, the ones that take a lifetime to forget, and witnessing a death so splendidly done is something no memory, no matter how much amount of intoxication or denial would ever erase. To attempt to destroy that memory is to dishonour the greatest person one never met, or possibly did. Those of us who understand the meaning in life also understand that those who conclude life on their own terms and by their own means are martyrs, the martyrs of life who are usually all too readily forgotten. You will find plaques and statues commemorating those who died to save the ungrateful masses, or died to save their motherland; a more noble, albeit pointless cause. To those who die for the cause that life has become unbearable because society has pushed them to the edges of high cliffs and gently, tenderly, lovingly lowered them down to be smashed against the rocks by the rising tide; well, where is their remembrance? We will engrave the names of those who we sent to be murdered into the pages of history, but when it comes to those we ****** ourselves? Well I think those are the ones who we would rather sooner forget out of guilt because they are the evidence of our failures.
