mr bojjhangas (wildpersimmons) wrote,
mr bojjhangas
wildpersimmons

(i love you (just means i wor(k)ship the gdss n u))

there is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest--whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories--comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer. An if it is true, as Nietzsche claims, that a philosopher, to deserve our respect, must preach by example, you can appreciate the importance of that reply, for it will precede the definite act. These are facts the heart can feel; yet they call for a careful study before they become clear to the intellect.
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loneliness
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halos, afterglows, coronas

In the wake of a human being's death, what survives is a set of afterglows, some brigher and some dimmer, in the collective brains of all those who were dearest to them. And then those people in turn pass on, the afterglow become extremely faint. And when that outer layer in turn passes into oblivion, then the afterglow is feebler still, and after a while there is nothing left.
The slow process of extinction I've just described, though gloomy, is a little less gloomy than the standard view. Because bodily death is so clear, so sharp, and so dramatic, and because we tend to cling to the caged-bird view, death strikes us as instantaneous and absolute, as sharp as a guillotine blade. Our instinct is to believe that the light has once and for all gone out altogether. I suggest that this is not the case for human souls, because the essence of a human being--truly unlike the essence of a mosquito or a snake or a bird or a pig--is distributed over many a brain. It takes a couple of generations for a soul to subside, for the flickering to cease, for all the embers to burn out. Although "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" may in the end be true, the transition it describes is not so sharp as we tend to think.
It seems to me, therefore, that the instinctive although seldom articulated purpose of holding a funeral or memorial service is to reunite the people most intimate with the deceased, and to collectively rekindle in them all, for one last time, the special living flame that represents the essence of that beloved person, profiting directly or indirectly from the presence of one another, feeling the shared presence of that person in the brains that remain, and this solidifying to the maximal extent possible those secondary personal gemmae that remain aflicker in all these different brains. Though the primary brain has been eclipsed, there is, in those who remain and who are gathered to remember and reactivate the spirit of the departed, a collective corona that still glows. This is what human love means. The word "love" cannot, thus, be separated from the word "I"; the more deeply rooted the symbol for someone inside you, the greater the love, the brighter the light that remains behind.
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and what i want to know is / how do you like your blueeyed boy / Mister Death
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1)what is the meaning of the poem and what is the experience?
2)what thought or reflection does the experience lead us to?
3)what mood, feeling, emotion is stirred or created by the poem as a whole?
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Today,

To do justice, just as a (remy)nder of past trancegressions to those who, once trussed or st/heeled or toes, who ounce for ounce now trust less than mighty. Am I waking miscellany sense? If for giving up me-mores to boot (or to heel?) to heal 3eye may reiki-ndle to re-quest. Ions, particulars, if unAbel to do so, w to be quest shuns. Comprice? A conpadre in abcess of that lacking took instead to licking. Steady, and not just corporeal, but incorporate psycho. To hell? to heal. Wither the whether you wend, cyclo?

Oh, and
Hand you not noun all, ready when you spied her? Had only sp(hide)here, when he lied or down. Had you but seen while you and Mary fumed to get her, just is/was here all a longlegged, a wi(n)dow to how deity died, he. Didn't just crack your con. Crete when Colossus fell. Sam! Your eye! Light-in his candle is like brea(king of bread), the you-ch rist. The house of bread, three kings, and the star in the east all point to the Ra-sing sun. Don't bushel, you basketcase.

Don't just forge it. Set on fire, remy-ember?



rip Rahula Jeremy Jesus Fucking Christ McFreedom Today
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