The houses on all sides white in the sun grey in the shadow its calm here the road I take is made of grass the buildings move slowly they disappear till around the corner I hope as a last fleeting thought
The little kid in me disappeared when I arrived for the first time I still see him staring from a distant memory triggered to hide not from my stare but a sudden movement unfamiliarity I slowly move away as not to scare him for good
Most of us can almost
see the labels
tact on us
before we can struggle
You looked at me with no clue what I was I stood up walked away and you followed me but only with that look
You get reined in a lot maybe its the world around you or you that dances too much I suggest an other outlet so you can see this downpour and do a waltz in it
I've only listened to your inside
but I will recognize you
if I see you on the street
A little disturbance in symmetry does not disturb me it just makes me wonder why
We all live alone pretending to look at the world through misformed glass the windows don’t open in this cellar we breathe through cracks we made we love the fresh air to get in not out there
My “fresh air”, so to say, is reading books from people that I can relate to. I would like to meet people that are still alive and have similar thoughts like these long-dead philosophers, but no one has taught me the secret sign that like-minded people give each other when they cross each other in life. I like to read Nietzsche, but it doesn’t really matter which philosopher you read because they all share a willingness to search and question and have all seen the underlying problems. Their answers might be different, but I don’t think that answers are that important to get wiser; maybe answers function is being an anchor, and having one might tempt you to throw it overboard in rougher weather or when tired of sailing
Underneath are some quotes from one of Nietzsche’s last books: Twilight of the idols, or how to philosophize with a hammer. The hammer he uses is not one we use for driving nails but one the doctor uses to test reflexes and abnormalities in the nervous system…just so you know. Stucked between these quotes is a famous one “Out of life’s school of war: What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.” Because of all the (mis)use, it is now some kind of a platitude for me, but that doesn’t take away that you can still write a book about this one quote if you want.
The green door on the first floor I forget its color inside sitting in front of the window staring outside eyes closed watching the lights white inside moving on the rhythm from the outside
My thoughts are making towers of Babel without me
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.
Nochrisis 