He takes her hand.
Below her nape, hushes
sink at a gate.
The hallway mutes for departure.
Over the sea, their whispers
wander lonely.
Showing posts with label find a way. Show all posts
Showing posts with label find a way. Show all posts
01 April, 2010
10 October, 2007
Find a Way
It's starting, yet again.
As I hear the songs of my immaturity, those superficial deceptions of reality, I see the same, the returning of the same. And as a psychological conditioning explains, especially through the instance of a dog whipped by his master, I hide my tail under my legs, cower with the same compassion (This compassion will soon be disposed, as the returning recurs.) which has sprouted from fear. Yet I float like a falling leaf, light and light-hearted. This kindling companion of my suffering, that which suffers with me and for itself, has become strained and rusted with time, yet it is still the same. It is the same returning and recurring of an unwanted burden, eternally becoming the heaviest of burdens, as Nietzsche tells. And of this vicious cycle I am seemingly unable to escape... therefore I will write of this again eternally ad infinitum. I will forever suffer the first instance of pain as the second, or the second as the first, letting the eternal permutation unfold itself before an uncaring, inexistent eye.
I try to see this cycle as it is being. Yet I cannot, since the sentiments that excessively grapple me do not have reason, and therefore do not obey it. It is in my trying to release myself that I feel the yearning to be released, not only from the cycle that seems to continue to be, but also from the cloud of sentiment that refuses to see itself, in so far as it is being. Heidegger very well cites that even the finest sentiments have no place in philosophy. However, Heidegger does not displace the effect a stirring, not an emotional, though. The emotional one that which drowns me in its bog of reclusion and repression does not progress. Nor does this bog digress. The bog that is created from my own suffering for myself with the unknown compassion that continually suffers with me and for itself in this vicious cycle takes on the characteristic of a stagnant pond, of a memory that does not concern the human being's essential nature.
In a similar way, Nietzsche asserts that the heart is deceitful and corrupt. That the sentiments of the irrational fool us into chasing our tails, making us enter into the vicious cycle consequently distracting us from truly moving, that is, from undertaking an essential movement that concerns our very nature. We can compare this to Nietzsche's own demon and the heaviest of burdens. It initially seems to be "good," but as the returning recurs (as we are continually returning to the bog which blinds us), we see the futility of our actions that prevent us from undertaking the essential movement. These sentiments indeed do not constitute the stirring that prompts the orexis of the sophon, as Heidegger writes. These sentiments, only seem superficial. These do not go beyond physicality.
The undertaking of the essential movement could only become, Heidegger says, if we look past the sentiments that blind us. By looking into and for the being beyond that which decorates it and being in correspondence (in my case, underlying astonishment) with the "is-ness" of the Other, we are able to find at least an inkling of a way towards philosophizing.
As I hear the songs of my immaturity, those superficial deceptions of reality, I see the same, the returning of the same. And as a psychological conditioning explains, especially through the instance of a dog whipped by his master, I hide my tail under my legs, cower with the same compassion (This compassion will soon be disposed, as the returning recurs.) which has sprouted from fear. Yet I float like a falling leaf, light and light-hearted. This kindling companion of my suffering, that which suffers with me and for itself, has become strained and rusted with time, yet it is still the same. It is the same returning and recurring of an unwanted burden, eternally becoming the heaviest of burdens, as Nietzsche tells. And of this vicious cycle I am seemingly unable to escape... therefore I will write of this again eternally ad infinitum. I will forever suffer the first instance of pain as the second, or the second as the first, letting the eternal permutation unfold itself before an uncaring, inexistent eye.
I try to see this cycle as it is being. Yet I cannot, since the sentiments that excessively grapple me do not have reason, and therefore do not obey it. It is in my trying to release myself that I feel the yearning to be released, not only from the cycle that seems to continue to be, but also from the cloud of sentiment that refuses to see itself, in so far as it is being. Heidegger very well cites that even the finest sentiments have no place in philosophy. However, Heidegger does not displace the effect a stirring, not an emotional, though. The emotional one that which drowns me in its bog of reclusion and repression does not progress. Nor does this bog digress. The bog that is created from my own suffering for myself with the unknown compassion that continually suffers with me and for itself in this vicious cycle takes on the characteristic of a stagnant pond, of a memory that does not concern the human being's essential nature.
In a similar way, Nietzsche asserts that the heart is deceitful and corrupt. That the sentiments of the irrational fool us into chasing our tails, making us enter into the vicious cycle consequently distracting us from truly moving, that is, from undertaking an essential movement that concerns our very nature. We can compare this to Nietzsche's own demon and the heaviest of burdens. It initially seems to be "good," but as the returning recurs (as we are continually returning to the bog which blinds us), we see the futility of our actions that prevent us from undertaking the essential movement. These sentiments indeed do not constitute the stirring that prompts the orexis of the sophon, as Heidegger writes. These sentiments, only seem superficial. These do not go beyond physicality.
The undertaking of the essential movement could only become, Heidegger says, if we look past the sentiments that blind us. By looking into and for the being beyond that which decorates it and being in correspondence (in my case, underlying astonishment) with the "is-ness" of the Other, we are able to find at least an inkling of a way towards philosophizing.