Waltz…

My dear dear friends, what wishes you make, with each passing day? What do you see in your path, do you live your life away? How we all forget sometimes, our reflections in the lake, do we not wish too much? Did we not forget to waltz love say?

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Published in: on 24/04/2013 at 12:28 AM  Leave a Comment  

Philosophia!

Philosophy is dead, and we have killed her. The murderers of all murderers, we – philosophers, how can we console ourselves? For we have prostituted her – my dear darling Wisdom! Oh Wisdom! How you lie alone with your agony in the midst of this deserted cell, where once the palace of grandeur and beauty stood, the temple of peace and prosperity, now abandoned, in dust. The landscape is vast, there rest our dear old friends – no! They are no longer our friends my fellow philosophers, for we have betrayed them! The gloomy tomb filled with thick air, dead skeletal branches seemingly expand towards infinity, and my heart sinks in synchrony, with the darkness of the graveyard permeating, as I have become far too ill, far too conscious of, myself, and now of the world. The peace that I long for, accelerates away from me like an old quasar, I have fallen into the deep cosmos of nothingness, absolute nothingness, where my cries are silent, my lungs suffocate. Only that I have come too soon, and too late. Too soon for my life, too late, for my love…

Published in: on 07/04/2013 at 10:09 PM  Leave a Comment  

The Modern Philosoph

The beauty of words or the clarity of meaning?

What senses they stir what reasons they tell?

What sickness of mind what decay of flesh.

How will I love? Where shall I dwell?

Published in: on 07/04/2013 at 1:18 AM  Leave a Comment  

Manuscript in the New Dark Age

Manu-scripting notes had become a luxury in this age – the digital age, of efficiency, of quantity, of competition. But as time runs scarce, there are qualities necessarily lost, for one cannot say that a candle lasts only an hour. Thus, it is up to the self, to learn to appreciate all those intricate beauty in this pacing framework; they are the fine brushstrokes of a neo-classicist, something that is not captured within the scenery itself; they are the silences of Satie’s piano, yet stories they yearn to tell; they are the hidden sweetness of raw cocoa, only that one is defeated by the thick surface of bitterness. “What it is to be human?” How we have become so distant to ourselves, how we forget our faces, how we force ourselves into what we most fear, how the ambivalence of our nature lure us into self-hatred and destruction, yet we will not to save ourselves, we had become weak, contemptible, backwards, back into the Dark Ages, save this time, it is not merely dark, but also cold, and bleak…

Manuscript

 

Published in: on 07/04/2013 at 1:08 AM  Leave a Comment