Primordial Instinct

Horror has a face; it can be seen in the memmory, rewinded and repeated over and over again. Whearas Fear does not. Fear refers to the speculations of the unknown. A glimpse towards the dark, which may be in the form of one's own imagination. Fear is one's own discrepencies, which are projected onto the screen, as they are filtered through the lens of one's observation. Hence, we sterotype!

Animals communicate; so do humans. Earlier relying solely on the subtle gestures, and body language. Where every move is translated onto a slate of meaning, which is hardcoded in the animal's own instinct. The naturally derived hypothesis being that the other animal has the exact replica set of instincts, actions, and perhaps emotions. Then, sterotyping is not a human instinct, consequently.

Humans, when following animals in their footsteps, try to find meaning in the non-intentional or perhaps very diverse gestures of the opposite person. It does seem bruitish, however, that humans neglect and fail to trust their most accomplished achievement in the history: Language. The psudo-scholarly spins the nature of the brutish action under the label of "diverse human interaction", and sometimes "Wisdom" (,which they define as pre-judging the future before happening on the basis of what has happened before. A cruel form of sterotyping). But they know it too. They know that bypassing the language is from fear. A fear of clarity, that may be unleashed over the matter, if they communicate in words. A fear that it may lead to Horror.

Lead it may to horror, but never will to the horror of existance. Life in its purest and innocent most form is the set of events. One must experience these events to find meaning to their existance, and consequently realization. Horror has a face, but fear does not: the fear actually destroys any face like acid on skin.

and it never seized to beat.

There exist axioms on which life tries its test round the diurnal on us meeks. The wise are those who are aware of them. A fool is not the one who doesn’t see, but he fails to act on them. Gratification is the reward pursued by the fool and the wise alike. The prize lies within delaying it. The fool must fail to the virtue of his actions, hence.

I be the fool this day, and sacrifice gratification again for the sake of it; forsaken every time just for the sake of being marred, and let lose to repeat it. Faux pas! I must quit dreaming, and end this lapse. I must abandon my search for the nirvana which haunts me, and ignore the paradoxes that dog me. I have seen what must have been shown to the prophets, but this very fact separ1ates me from them. I wanted it for myself, and I wanted it then. A mortal flaw! A wretched fact!

My wit beings to turn, and a Tempest is yet to come. I give up – Heavens, Apollo, Mars, or Neptune, be my witness to this day: I give up. My hope lied in thee (not the deities), and thee shall I never have. Adieu, rationality; I fare you well. I look forward to the day I'll die the death of a bourgeois.

anticipation contd.

So, if to wait is to understand the nature, then to be excited is to harmonize with the epestemology of the creation. However, these words I say drop like sticks on hollow drums. Wait can be the most agonizing experience a person can undergo. Both of the arguments, i guess, hold valid; it only depends on whom's sound you lay your ears waiting.

anticipation

To wait for someone is to witness the marvel of nature's beauty on the scale that defines her very essence: the time. (to be continued)

Nirvana

Through the depths of personal hell and onto the band wagon of social fallacies, I have looked everywhere. I have searched for this idea in its purest form. Never have I been surprised the way I was today, and then still my search continues.
The fate is most ironic of all creatures. One must come across a nirvana and then find it unsuitable and part from her, thinking "well, it may be myself to blame, for I have chosen this path myself".
I have thought that, "I will burn all my books and will receede into the darkness of ignorance and away from where i can be touched by a single ray of enlightened humans". But the struggle still continues, and none of it is definitive.

catastrophe

The frames, as they may appear of time, seem to be frozen. The moments span the depths of my perception. I feel the world revolving around me. The sound of music, in thick smoke of cigars, makes the air more viscous to breath. The viscousity only adding to the pleasure of serene breathing. I love this serenity of the moment. The moment which lasts forever, but will never span to eternity.
The dark shadow that creeps up and then receeds to rest under the ridges of the lamp, portrays my diminished ambitions against this time. The wind that blows outside, as a stranger to me, when asks me the cause of my pain, I write down on the abyss of my void the answer to the question ,"lonliness".
An hundred faces hidden behind the masks, like a 17th century masquerade, each face with my own face on it, when I notice and then pose the question to myself, "lonliness?" Then forget to answer it, as if ignoring it for the culmination of bliss. A serene bliss to which I lose myself, asking questions I will never have the answers to, and would not ask them, if otherwise.

Serenity

The utter hoplessness and overwhelming pretention followed by ball-quenching, stomach defalating anxiety are the qualities of a quality time; that I undergo everyday.
In such moments, there sometimes, exists intermoment intervals which are unaffected by disturbances, and distortions of acquired hypocricy; this span of time is calm and unruffled like a blue sky over a deep blue see on which ripples play in a serene harmony.
I had such a moment today and now I am in the state of nostalgia. How pathetic!

to be or not to be

To be or not to be was the question a long while ago. It was debated to an extent that the question lost its point and the only thought that remained was to quit or not to quit. After many a centuries a person who underwent a dilemna of to start or not to start was liberated from the trial to castrate or not to castrate. The verdict came after the acceptance of the women on to bitch or not to bitch. The matter was resolved during the argument: to minimize or sodomize the available capacity of capacitancy.
The only thing that remains now and has escaped the shattering blast of de-oxygenated time is to be or not to be. Is that the question my friend?

the irony

"Etherized upon a table"
Today, I did that I might have not done otherwise (read the blog below). I actually deconstructed a Chaucer's tale, "Scholar's tale". I argued and proved that Marquis Walter was impotent, and his chosen wife was autistic. This was the only reason that Walter aflicts so much pain on his wife, and the only reason why she bears it. They were both fucking sick!
I cannot wait to see my grade on that test. I only decunstructed the tale so that the professor may understand that there are many different perspectives to approach a thing and one cannot and must not see everything through the microscope of feminism.

Cojito ergo sum, you dum dum!

"Etherized upon a table"
Dissapointments, they come in all shapes and colors, and afflict you when you are least expecting them. A similar tragedy has fallen upon your humble narrator, my friends. I have again become a victim of somebody's narrow-unidirectional-closed box type approach to life; this time only she would not agree that she is a conservative.
I am talking about my british litrature class. With high hopes, I had enrolled in the class. I was excited, and blood rushed through my veins at a fairly high pace, my heart-beat about 140bps, my ear-lobes red; as i walked briskly towards the class.
Alas, why do He createth bitches? It turns out, to my sorrow, the professor is a die-hard feminist. Do not get me wrong here, I have nothing against those vulva-worshipping dominions of Venus. Instead, I was glad at first that this would open a new perspective for me to look upon the litrature, but behold, I was mistaken.
In her very first attempt she castrated Chaucer by putting his balls into a smoothie blender, while Chaucer might have been standing trying to answer a nature's call by the bush. Get this, all we talk about in the class is the condition of the women, and never a thing about the evolution of litrature.
I asked her something about the evolution of tragedy in english language from Chaucer to Shakespere, and she almost turned into a succubus and (almost) bit my scrotum. One cannot be more careful these days.
I do not refute the condition of women at that point in time in British culture, however, I cannot allow history to be condemned for what it once was; and never ever, on the altar of their own literature.
I do believe we should come out of this tree-hugging-Eve-presidentfor2008-crap and start focusing on the linguistic aspects of the literature. I am dispensing my days in extreme pain just thinking of how she would murder the spirit of King Lier by shoving the dagger of Feminism in Shakespere's ass. I know it, her arms will be stretched out and she would be saying "Regan had very big ovaries".

Anything at all

"Etherized upon a table"
What I once said about life does not hold anymore. I have retreated from my own vision into the shelters of someone else's -- hoping that it will cover me from the raining fire of doubts from the crimson skies of enlightenment on which shimmers the rainbows of thoughts.
I will someday be sitting on a bench, holding a box of chocolates, gazing at people in an amazement who will be looking at me in a dilemna of the selection of the expression of right emotions. Or perhaps, I will be leaning out of the window in the night, with my white shirt's sleeves rolled up, watching people pass in the streets, along with the yellow fog that rubs itself on the window panes -- unaware that its there. That, or I will be playing some music that I will not know the origin of. I will be perfect in the timing of the right notes, ironically, perfectly playing it from the memmory.
I have chosen this for myself. Happen will it must, and I will be unaware that I chose it myself, once.