I look up to find where you live you said I would recognize your window but they all look the same I wonder if you were someone else for me than that you are now I look again who are you in one of those window
Longing for warmth she left
leaving behind
falen over
where she parked
I made some announcements in my life and they were all taken but I’m not sure how
213. It is difficult to learn what a philosopher is, because it cannot be taught: you have to “know” by experience, – or you should be proud that you do not know it at all. But nowadays everyone talks about things that they cannot experience, and most especially (and most terribly) when it comes to philosophers and philosophical matters. Hardly anyone knows about them or is allowed to know, and all popular opinions about them are false. So, for instance, the genuinely philosophical compatibility between a bold and lively spirituality that runs along at a presto, and a dialectical rigor and necessity that does not take a single false step – this is an experience most thinkers and scholars would find unfamiliar and, if someone were to mention it, unbelievable. They think of every necessity as a need, a painstaking having-to-follow and being-forced; and they consider thinking itself as something slow and sluggish, almost a toil and often enough “worth the sweat of the noble.” Not in their wildest dreams would they think of it as light, divine, and closely related to dance and high spirits! “Thinking” and “treating an issue seriously,” “with gravity” – these belong together, according to most thinkers and scholars: that is the only way they have “experienced” it –…
Today I wanted to do something different. I took a random number generator and let it choose 3 old posts. The idea was to combine the three pictures and the three poems, or how you might call them. This is a photoshopped picture and a merger of three poems from Day 876, 1524, and 1580. The rule I set for myself for both the picture and the poems was not to add things; taking away was ok and reusing to. And before I forget it, these poems have nothing to do with where I am now, they are just experiences that have somehow carved there tracks in me and my past.
Some of my lines woke me in my dream a massive leaving my concrete structure its weight it seems to hover pressed in bed mid-air I am just just leaving you
They say we can all climb the ladder to get closer to the top to be alone maybe if you are inside but the towers grow your ladder fails and the mist they reach engulfs gets thicker and thus from the outside you can no longer see the top from the top you can not see no longer the bottom
Waiting for death is like reading a book wherein the story never seems to end but you feel the book getting heavier on one side
What you create today
that captures today
has the potential to be admired
in two hundred years
Morality as ant-nature
1. All passions have a phase when they are merely disastrous, when they drag down their victim with the weight of stupidity–and a later, very much later phase when they wed the spirit, when they “spiritualize” themselves. Formerly, in view of the element of stupidity in passion, war was declared on passion itself, its destruction was plotted; all the old moral monsters are agreed on this: il faut tuer les passions. The most famous formula for this is to be found in the New Testament, in that Sermon on the Mount, where, incidentally, things are by no means looked at from a height. There it is said, for example, with particular reference to sexuality: “If thy eye offend thee, pluck it out.” Fortunately, no Christian acts in accordance with this precept. Destroying the passions and cravings, merely as a preventive measure against their stupidity and the unpleasant consequences of this stupidity–today this itself strikes us as merely another acute form of stupidity. We no longer admire dentists who “pluck out” teeth so that they will not hurt any more.
To be fair, it should be admitted, however, that on the ground out of which Christianity grew, the concept of the “spiritualization of passion” could never have been formed. After all, the first church, as is well known, fought against the “intelligent” in favor of the “poor in spirit.” How could one expect from it an intelligent war against passion? The church fights passion with excision in every sense: its practice, its “cure,” is castratism. It never asks: “How can one spiritualize, beautify, deify a craving?” It has at all times laid the stress of discipline on extirpation (of sensuality, of pride, of the lust to rule, of avarice, of vengefulness). But an attack on the roots of passion means an attack on the roots of life: the practice of the church is hostile to life.
I still remember running to the last tree on the street it was the autumn of my youth still young I saw no other trees then these lining the street not far from where you were
Standing on your pedestal acting your wisdom believable the mirror at night alone avoided
We get born empty slowly filed by what overflows in others and then we see one day ourselves imagined in our mind
In life we sometimes follow someone
while they were following us
that is not so special
the moment you find out
that is special
I just heard that they say that we are all different whereafter I thought yeah but there is still more of the same in all of us
Memories sometimes rush into me carried by a smell a glance a word today one rushed forwards helped by a movement an old tool I saw its movement I remember it it was from the days when I played played on the floor fantasy worlds with plastic toys I saw it there it was in my mind I do remember when I think about it I have many memories of things things that happened in my fantasy maybe I spend most of my time there I don’t remember
Nochrisis 