Society. Schools.

Speeches without contents are corruptive;

Thoughts without expressions are useless.

The common modern person is no more rational than those of the past ages, yet they are deceived into the illusion of having greater rationality. This illusion, is caused by the exponential growth in technological advancements, economical and industrial growth, the increase in population, globalisation, information accessibility and overflow etc. All of these lead to changes in the behaviours of individuals and groups, and ultimately the emergence of a replacing social norm. This social norm then affects (and is in turn affected by – as individuals become submerged passively into such norms) ethical standards (such as the acceptance of homosexual marriage in certain places around the world; the emphasis on so-called ‘equality’ and ‘human rights’; the idea of ‘freedom’ and ‘materiality’). The illusion of rationality is nothing but the belief – ‘our’ social norm and ‘ethical standards’ are (more) ‘correct’ than those of the past generations. This is an illusion, because the average person in no way understands the underlying workings of the ideas that she/he takes for granted; instead, these ideas are spoon-fed into their mind through the brainwashing via their immediate circles, their cultural environments, the modern educations system and the media – before they are equipped with adequate rationality to critique and to think – in fact, most are never (or never had the chance to be) equipped with any intellectual capacity, enough to even evaluate their most basic fast-holding beliefs. These are fine – in all of history, we know that the common person is not involved much with the running of this world; yet today – almost everyone thinks that they’re rational. It is this illusion of rationality, that is hiding at the centre of a emerging shadow, a social corruption – the naivety and incompetence of the people will cost themselves very dearly.

Power comes from the people – the government has power only because of people’s support, the multi-billion corporations have power only because of people’s valuing in materiality. Corruption and decay does not come from these ‘powerful figures’, but from ourselves – we dig our own graves, we bring the world to an end with our very own hands, we contradict ourselves when we stand and call in the name of ‘the good’.

Wake up, I plead thee…

A note on education: English (or the native language of a particular nation) is usually compulsory in secondary education, while all other subjects (in many schools) are mere electives. The idea is simple – a free education, in the name of liberty. Yet how can one be free when one cannot even think? We teach language because we think it is the most fundamental subject area for one to even dare hold the title of ‘being educated’, yet we forget, how thinking (or more precisely, rationality), goes hand in hand with expressing. Philosophical training, should be the other compulsory unit in every secondary education in this world, for it teaches not of ideas or beliefs, but trains one to be very careful with thoughts, being intellectually rigorous, being extremely sensitive to errors in expressions – these are necessary traits for one to be a rational human being, albeit the other wonderful beauty philosophy teaches. Mathematics, is another extremely useful, yet not necessary (as we understand of its technicality – mathematics is another language – a quantitative language), for it trains one’s mind to be comfortable with rigorous and complex abstract concepts and formulating ideas and thoughts in the abstract realm.

Of course, I understand – these are all ‘well and good’, but whether they ever shall be realised is another matter – for this depends on the question of whether people want to be rational, and human.

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Published in: on 31/07/2013 at 10:31 PM  Leave a Comment  

The Concerto

The concerto is a battle between the existentialist subject and the society as an union. The symphony orchestra represents the power and structure of the social, while the soloist reflects the freedom and expressions of the individual. The concerto is a war, a war between the speculative good life of humanity as a whole, and the struggle of humanity itself, of the human individual; after all, the individual forms the society, only then shall the society shape its members.

The effect creating works of modernity reveals a general leaning towards consequentialist ideals, the instruments no longer are recognised as in themselves musically expressive, of the clarity of pitch and timbre, but of how it affects the overall impressions upon the listener. The individual no longer lives as a human being, but as a mere mechanical piece within a gigantic framework of machinery – the social machine. Who is the conductor? Where are the audiences? There is none. We have long forgotten the origins of this, now headless zombie – this, is the tragedy.

Published in: on 21/07/2013 at 7:41 PM  Leave a Comment  

Fields of Time

In dreams we are slaves, yet are not dreams but the will’s own workings?

How can I not be a slave of myself? Is not being the master of oneself also being the slave of oneself? What freedom may I have? Is not freedom a paradox itself? Is not being free but being a slave to my freedom? Is not freedom an impossibility?

Published in: on 21/07/2013 at 7:19 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Pathos of Life

Life is a tragedy

Death is the inevitable and only path life lead towards. Death is but a piece of graphite sketch, the sketch of life. The lovers, sees the drawing with pleading eyes, tears linger around unwilling to fall, as they agonise over their final parting. The death of the beloved, is what causes the fear of love for a contemplating child, for it renders life tragic – the death of the beloved does not end my life, it ends the life of my beloved, so I fear not death itself, but the death of my beloved. I realise the sudden void in which I dwell, I brood over my loss, and more so, the emptiness of my dying days. Death of others become blows to my weakening soul, and my body yet holds, only torturing me with a crescendo. My death on the other hand, but not of my beloved, becomes a fearful demon, for now the greatest anguish is this certainty, the certainty that I shall leave this world I love, this world in which I love. The moments before my death may be well served by my madness. This, is the pathos of life, of one who loves and belongs. The bitter wanderer, lone and weary, sees death as the final salvation, for life is but misery. I walk the earth alone, shunning all loves away, to protect my vulnerable soul, yet little do I know, that the sketch is but grey shades of monotone, only to make me all the more bitter and fall into a cold endless woe. A wise one learns, to understand the mystery of meaning, of life, one must become not the miserable pessimist, but the artist, who, with rich full blossoms, lacks not a readiness for death. The finale. The artist, the long fermata, the rich flowing honey, the autumn leaves. The artist’s piece of drawing is the riches of all, there are flowers of love, trees of wisdom, the world in splendorous shades and figures. I am the artist, I feel I am ready for death now – as I was yesterday. I smell the peaceful air, glancing at all the colours of a humble nature, how she hides so much, so glorious her meaning. I am calm, I welcome death with an open arm, an embracing gesture, a smile of gratitude. It is another long sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream…

Published in: on 21/07/2013 at 6:41 AM  Leave a Comment  

Cloudy Morning

The cold air invades. I walk alone in this winter morning, on the scattered streets of Canberra, surprised at the constant presence of other passers; or perhaps, it is because that I have secluded myself for too long from them.

The morning is strange. Yet the morning seems so familiar, like a mother at home, welcoming the returning of her child. I have long not seen daylight. I have dwelled in darkness for, perhaps, not so long; or perhaps, for far too long…

The passers by, the morning café, the steaming breakfast seeping through those wooden framed entrances, I in consciousness drift near the scent, the warm scent of culture. The passers by, reminds me of the indifference, of not merely actors, but of the stage. What is left of our freedom? We never had freedom perhaps, like in dreams. Our dream is not our will, but an ungraspable given, it is the story that is played to us in our sleep, in our powerlessness.

O! How must I live? Helpless shall we become? The passers, the society; like a programmed system. Perhaps we are programed. How the people act in synchrony, how the people react to the unexpected, how the unwelcomed guest is like a plague. I am the unexpected, the unwelcomed guest, I am the stranger, the event, I am the virus in the system, I am ill, very ill indeed.

The clouds are low, extremely low. They almost stand floating just above the buildings. They suddenly alert me to a scene. The clouds, form surreal, also real, figures, sculptures, of ancient war fields, of heroes, of battles raging in flames. An ox, Odysseus… The clouds drift at a racing pace above my head, I watch the grey army – the haunting ghosts, coming again.

How are you? I am very unwell…

Published in: on 18/07/2013 at 10:20 AM  Leave a Comment  

I Weep Over Clara’s Death

‘… a loving heart is better and stronger than wisdom…’
Peggotty’s narration of Clara’s memory of David’s father, before she went to sleep. One of my dearly beloved lines from my most treasured novel  – Charles Dickens, “David Copperfield”.

David Copperfield

David Copperfield

I love wisdom.

I resent my love of wisdom.

And I brood over my resentment of my love of wisdom.

I cannot rest.

‘You are too young to know how the world changes every day, how the people in it pass away. But we all have to learn it, David; some of us when we are young, some of us when we are old, some of us at all times of our lives.’

Published in: on 18/07/2013 at 5:14 AM  Leave a Comment  

Staring into the Wall

The Artist and the Philosopher stands on the opposing edges of the world. I, suffer the torment of a twisted mind, a shattering heart, and a displaced soul. I yearn for beauty yet away beauty floats. My love begins dying the moment it was born. Roses appear redder in snow, blood staining the bitter cold. Music is a poison, she caresses me like the wind passing by, I cry, I wish to fly, my dreams they come by, let me sleep, let me dream. The sound of winter haunts and whispers, a non-existing picture sinks into my eyes, I am taken. I am taken, and shall never return again, never return yet abandoned again; I scream in anguish my tears gone dry. An apple, a mirror, an anchor, and a clock. I watch the tickling clock, as each second passes by, I throw my anchor into the sea, yet nowhere it may land, I stare into the mirror… I hold the rotting apple, awaiting for the finale. That, is all I can do. A swan quill is dyed in blood wine, ink of moon dust and paper champagne. Some lead here and there, some sketches of faces, of cities, shall soon be washed away, like old memories of the dying, alone, dying. So much colour that I can no longer stand, in a burst of flame I turn everything into colourless shades. Peace. Quiet. Silence. The smoke fills the air. The night glows with twinkling fairies, a defect in the eye, an impression. If god exists, he must be a very imperfect creature, an ill being, for how can a perfection be said of a world so chaotic and empty? Doubts and certainty. The doubt of life. The certainty of death. The inevitable. The anguish, the torment. The blessed and the cursed. The blood turning purple, turning blue, and black. The sands and the stones. The river, the riverbed, the flowing water. Love, the pathos of love, the death of love. Love can never be, for love is the verkaufer of death. And freedom, the anchor – we are never free, nor can puppets know their masters, this, is the paradox, this, is the tragedy. Being is a tragedy. Life is a tragedy, an epic tragedy. The appreciation of suffering, the search for beauty, an artist’s path is no different to that of a philosophers, they stand on the moon, the same moon. The artist finds light, the philosopher finds the shadows. Why are memories so cherished? Why do we long for the past? Because the past is our story, for life is but a novel. We are the directors, actors, and the audiences of our life. We never are in the present, for the present always happens too quickly, we are always in the past, always. We weep over our long gone memories because only in the past can we see the beautiful, for the audience can only view a film after its production. Yet the past is never here. We can never grasp what we want, never. Never is a long time. So is forever. Life is a cycle of endless yearnings, for those yearnings can never, never be replied. Death gives meaning to life, because the future is no longer an endless abyss, the future is a gate, the gate of death. Death, is our only refuge, death, is what we must accept, and face, and with appreciation and the utter most grateful heart. This sadness… Shall it ever go away? Who are the masters of deception? Who are the authentic people? The mist. The frost. The cold dry air. The daunting cosmos. The chain of insufficient reasons. The world of paradoxes. The night, the silence. Words. Songs. A gift of melancholy.

Published in: on 09/07/2013 at 11:48 PM  Leave a Comment  

The Possible, and the Impossible

It’s only a matter of time, before I learn to fly.

What legends are left shall fade, for certain will death love lie.

Published in: on 09/07/2013 at 2:04 PM  Leave a Comment  

Calligraphy

A Doodle

A Doodle

The digital media is never an alternative to the practice of penmanship, for hand-lettering is not the making of pretty letters, but the forging of the character and the perfection of the soul; in fact, it urges one away from the cold mechanistic world as is today – it teaches a being what it is to be human.

Published in: on 06/07/2013 at 1:45 PM  Leave a Comment  

My Resentment of Philosophia

I never said I love philosophy – in fact, I condemn it.

What I love is wisdom, and this, is what I resent – I resent my love of wisdom.

I appraise love, I chase after wisdom, I lament the love of wisdom.

I only engage in the love of wisdom because I love wisdom, but I agonize over this engagement.

No, I am not self-contradictory, nor is this a divided desire.

You must realise, that, it is the love of foolishness which founds the search for wisdom.

Published in: on 06/07/2013 at 3:27 AM  Leave a Comment