
We go through life opening doors and even though we know its mood we still go in expecting maybe not its opposite but something else

We go through life opening doors and even though we know its mood we still go in expecting maybe not its opposite but something else

You wonder out there and I can only see you a being nothing
For the last few weeks, I have been reading books about child development and how we grow up and become the adults we are. I don’t do this without reason; I still wonder why I have such an interest in who and what we are. I know that most people have questions and, on occasion, also pursue these, but for me, it’s something I do every day. I have not done this my whole life; before philosophy, I was curious about many things, and I pried open all the toys I got to see what was inside. Later this curiosity made me look inside myself because I broke down and wanted to know why. I was born with a more than average curiosity, you might say.
Personal tragedies can often be a reason for some soul searching, but most people I know moved on once life was on the rails again and demanded their attention again. I’ve never stopped, and I think it’s because I was always curious and maybe slightly obsessive. But if it is just part of me to be this interested in philosophy and the search for what’s inside, why would I then write a book about what I learned if like-minded people are the only ones that read it?
We humans are, in essence, self-centered beings. We look at the world from a specific standpoint, uniquely ours, because of our experiences and a mostly unconscious feeling that other people are not really like us*, not really there, you could say. We mostly assume that other people are real because they do like we do, but all our experiences and hidden thoughts are only ours and are an impregnable wall between us and the other. This is the reason, I think, why it is so hard for me to imagine why other people are not as enthusiastic about philosophy as I am. I can’t penetrate their mind (Are they even real?) and can only project my experiences onto them.
I know that this is one way of looking at this problem; the fact is that most people are not interested in philosophy and asking the hard questions to one’s self. So besides my self-interest, what is the reason for me to write about my thoughts? I believe that it is important, and if more people would think twice about why they have certain opinions, the world would be a better place. I also don’t have the Illusion that what I have to say is something special or unique, I just say it slightly different than others have done it a thousand times before. I just wonder if it is possible to change people from not so curious about why we are what we are to enthusiastic questioners about why they believe and do the things they do.

You faded away into the background but I still see you sharp


There is a lot of negative energy when I get close to you or you to me and that is strange because I also see the positive energy streaming in you maybe it's my stands or memory of you that makes me avoid touching both of your directions at the same time

I see a light hue Looking into the distance mimicking green grass

The streets are gray and not colorful like my house. I wonder why the streets are gray and not colorful. I almost never see my house for a long time from the outside, but the streets I do.

A green door on number four with three locks three door bells four nameplates and one mailbox

Today you look quiet for the last time alone your house still filled with visitors the memory of this air already fleeing tomorrow you will look to the left say yes and the visitors will be gone

The dark road had a warning sign standing on the right side that I couldn't see.
Fog was still there to disturb the light of the sun.
The road I took was good but not like the one I drive on now and feel.
Crushed rocks make you slow down and realize the old roads pleasant feel.
I open my mind and roll down the window.
The fog smells clear further down the road where the darkness is still.
I see a subtle bend in the distance.

The clicking of the clock it is our only reminder that we divided time in tiny steps tiktoktiktoktiktoktiktoktiktok is it a coincident that the invention of this rhythm to our end coincided with our search for happiness on this earth

I don't know what I look for in art but I always find it

My memories of this morning are bleak not because of the scene I saw but because I have seen it countless times

I left my toys behind
in the fields and valley's of my youth
but I still recognize them
in their shadows that reach
out to me
now the sun is going down
I wish I could still play with them
but I would break them
or the illusion

I wonder if this little bug that flew to the top looks down on the other critters

The road
to the gate of heaven and hell
is the same

He showed me two faces one open and one showing what he wants I showed him mine an open hand empty and cowardly with a way out I stared at him or maybe through him