27 April 2011


daylight has brought along two kids inspired by the beat generation to boast about having learned how to climb the ladder of love up to the point of loving wisdom. with an intoxicating passion inherited from rather drunken gods, the two have been speaking about how they feel themselves true only when focusing on the one thing which enables them to be true for themselves - writing.

“after having suffered a writer's block, again, and, again, healing it with a glass of red, I understood some valuable things about inhibitions and what they reveal about the nature of writing.”
“writing is the very equal of taking a walk in the park, naked. there's nothing to use as a cover for the nudity of one's very own character, no matter how skilled one grows to be in twisting the words and mixing the scenes.”
“well. earlier today I wrote down a note for myself, which I really needed to capslock and shit, for I really am for this and that's why I am for the beats. I wrote,


“oh yes, and then there were the italians, you remember them italians, who in their old wisdom spoke about in vino veritas. if you speak bullshit when drunk, you're bullshit. hypocritical bullshit.”

amongst the biggest quantitative concentration of the brightest minds of this city one sits and reads words by an inspiring mind channeling from a decade lived through long ago. ironically enough, the following words read are from pages 32 and 33 of the romantic manifesto.

“I am referring here to romantic love, in the serious meaning of that term - as distinguished from the superficial infatuations of those whose sense of life is devoid of any consistent values, i.e., of any lasting emotions other than fear. love is a response to values. it is with a person's sense of life that one falls in love - with that essential sum, that fundamental stand or way of facing existence, which is the essence of a personality. one falls in love with the embodiment of the values that formed a person's character, which are reflected in his widest goals and smallest gestures, which create the style of his soul - the individual style of an unique, unrepeatable, irreplaceable consciousness. it is one's own sense of life that acts as the selectro, and responds to what it recognizes as one's own basic values in the person of another. it is not a matter of professed convictions (though these are not irrelevant); it is a matter of much more profound, conscious and subconscious harmony.

many errors and tragic disillusionments are possible in this process of emotional recognition, since a sense of life, by itself, is not a reliable cognitive guide. and if there are degrees of evil, then one of the most evil consequences of mysticism - in therms of human suffering - is the belief that love is a matter of “the heart,” not the mind, that love is an emotion independent of reason, that love is blind and impervious to the power of philosophy. love is the expression of philosophy - of a subconscious philosophical sum - and, perhaps, no other aspect of human existence needs the conscious power of philosophy quite so desperately. when that power is called upon to verify and support an emotional appraisal, when love is a conscious integration of reason and emotion, of mind and values, then - and only then - it is the greatest rewards of man's life.”

finally, at night, one solved the riddle in an instant, though it's no wonder for having been so long into trying to understand the metaphysical value judgments guiding our dear freemasons. the old man spins his consciousness to a variety of perspectives while observing the divine logic do its magic in the radiant minds of those wandering in the darkness of a maze made out of a variety of dear sufferings is what one sees and agrees.

the best part is, that the old man really isn't going to fight for anyone. it is up to the dear individual to grow and become the ultimate in one of two opposing senses of divinity, the one passive or the one active. the prize, the realization, the light, the whatever, is the same in the end of two opposing paths. equal until the very end, bitch.

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