The Hymninisticism

I feel a great conflict within me.

I would love you like a poet, but my voice won’t allow it.

And over those valleys of snow, was it what i seek? or the question itself. I cannot see.

And in those everlasting fields of reason, i found in myself, that conflict divided. Divided by an ineffable force of naturalism.

What questions sheath themselves between the reason of the fog, and the resilience of the trees.

There is harmony between the animals and the environs, but for humanity, harmony is but a once sought after commodity.

Through the plains of China, the fields of Kazakhstan, the cliffs of Switzerland and the lengths of my soul, i bequeathed to the natural order of things, my soul itself. A means to leave my soul, in the soil.

It were as though i spent my days living in delusion, tortured by menacing errors of oneself, a nullified self awareness, i lived my days a walking tragedy. As does every man.

I seek her valiantly, but silently. A naked nostalgia, unadulterated and unadorned. I wish for her a life of lavish and love, put as simple as can be. Yet I cannot, despite the distance, detach myself from the knowing of her existence.

Outside of nature, we worry of our creativity and humanity, as another form of humanity is adopting our instinct. It is as though, over these millions of years, that nature has plotted humanities demise… for this i do not blame them.

I saw the spider, i saw its eyes, i saw the fear embedded in its naturalism. What separates this spider from a man, only morals stand in the way. A cultural narrative forced upon oneself by the lived experience, it blocks us of our humanity. If he is real, what a conniving god.

The sky is natures canvas, to show humans hope in the form of art, a cloud resembling a heart, or a storm.

Nature’s generosity has forced me (due to my own morals) to be grateful for my appearance and mind, a once entropic internal discussion, now a serene reminder of natures beneficence.

Shielding a friend from an accursed knowledge, with the knowledge itself.

You are the Amadeus to my Salieri, the Brod to my Kafka, except in my instance, I am a failure to you in life and you are a success to me in death.

I would have died for her, unfortunately she killed me first.

If god is real, he is laughing at me, and in return, I laugh back.

You are not a poet, you are a being that is simply poetic.

You encapsulate the very timeless essence of being, but for me, and for me only. You are superstitiously tangled within my very pathos, i say these words senselessly, in the hope that they epitomise your everlasting warmth, they will never compare. To him, your warmth is but appreciated, to me and my very soul, you yourself are yearned for. My very knowing of things stems from the hurt bequeathed to me, by none other than yourself. A complicated man I am (perhaps too much so for a woman of such sweet simplicity, yet a hidden labyrinthine complexity that you cease to recognise, like a familiar face that has grown old) and still, at this very moment, this infinite moment yet finite man, I could be simple for you, I pledge this, I pledge and I plead, and ask you now, to allow me to plead to prove a pledge, or… to put it simply, I love you, ineffably.

The lover told the loved, “I love you” to which the loved returned, “I only believe that when you say it” yet the lover remains the waiting man, the yearning man.

My writings do not encapsulate my love, nor can the common man cannot comprehend it.

I write to you the world, and my emotion with it, as i fear to write your name.

Dostoevsky wrote white nights and has the lover remain unnamed, and the loved named. I name neither. I resent the writer, I fear the woman he is writing for.

You stand side by side a kind man, a man of innocence and a creative childishness, yet a man nonetheless.

My love is but mere waste.

I empty my heart of words unspoken, yet my being is tortured, tortured in knowing that these words will go unnoticed, and even if noticed, misunderstood. I feel a silence, I do not hear it, for silence is not heard, it is felt, I fill this void with words… words unspoken, I empty them upon the useless canvas that is my hands.

Love is, at first, heartache, then, it becomes headache when one is welcomed by the open arms of acceptance, but even acceptance leaves us with time, resulting in love becoming both.

It is a common analogy that the self appreciates life only after having stared death in the face, in the same way one only appreciates youth when one has grown old, but for me, i face death every day of my life, i fight it, just as often and as intensely as i console it. Yearn for it.

The Fool Beyond The Thinker

What is my love language you ask? Why it is the only language I speak.

It is not that I love you. It is that you are the very embodiment of the love within me, so promise me you will live well and if not with me, then a good and honest man. Do not be cruel to yourself, for you will be committing a great sin, the sin of forsaking love, the sin of forsaking yourself. If you are my love, my compassion and wilful grace, I will be your protector, your eyes, and if I am unwanted, I will cease to exist. I am at your disposal, my walls are down, my dear, and I am at your disposal. Fear not, this is not a burden, if I am unwanted and am claiming to be at your disposal, you may feel pent up guilt, I merely tell you, that as long as you live, I will live too. So live well. I’m counting on it.

I have said prior to this, that one cannot philosophise love, and if one does, they are cursing themselves with the disconnection of the heart, never able to feel love again. But I was mistaken, see if one philosophises love as i have, they are safe from pain, yet naked to growth. There is no certainty, but love can even crumble the mind of a man like me, love can be the striving force of delusion, allowing me to find certainty in love, so i say to descartes, “I feel, therefore I am” not in any sense is this statement me suggesting I have found certainty, for that is incomprehensible as of yet to the human mind, but let love be the driving force of an absurdist mindset, let love breathe as the existential delusion, let it be. If you have the capacity to love as I do, loving one woman, and remaining loyal to that woman despite her decisions, you will cease to feel jealousy if she chooses another, you will be happy. You will yearn, but what is worse, my reader, yearning, or a constant struggle to find certainty, a shroud you cannot unsheathe, yearning is the very heart of me, it is my driving force, it is my motivator and my will, Will to power? No. Will to love. The beauty of the process is that if your brain has the capacity to think as I do, you have the capacity to love as I do, walk into love, not blindly, that can lead to great grief, walk into love knowing that this woman has the capacity to make decisions, some you may not like, and some that may not appease the idea of her you had in your mind, because she is, in your head, a part of you, not herself. Love a woman for ‘her’ as they say, not what you want her to be, let her be the embodiment of your love and let her live how she likes, and for as long as she does, as will you, if she is the embodiment of your love, then the happiness she feeds herself will be your fuel, your motor. Be wary and take my words not with a pinch of salt, I am aware of the moral lacking in this philosophy, for it is my philosophy, and I have a chosen this path, the path of the fool, yet the path of a man who protects, and assigns himself to one person, for his entire life, I am telling you, because I assign myself intellectually and emotionally to the masses, I have given myself the great burden of empathy. Tread carefully in these waters and only take this path of love if you are a man of great self awareness and capability. There are other matters, such as when and how you choose this woman, if you read my works after finding this woman, and you realise she is the wrong woman, a woman you now wish not to love anymore, then there is not much another man’s words can do, but what i can say, is I understand, and so do many other people. I do not believe I have chosen the wrong woman, that could be delusion, but (note this) I love this woman in confidence, but from far away, I was unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary, so I did not fight for her, she loved another, and she loves another now, but I cease to give up, i play my cards from a distance, I do nothing to ruin her relationships and/or affairs, I am simply, there. If I am wanted, I am there, I am there with the mouth of a poet, the hand of writer, the mind of a thinker, and a heart that is personified, she is the very part of me that loves. I am deluded, yes, I am a fool, but I love, and love is great, it is the epitome of the persons, the climax of the masses, and the greatest achievement in the birth of the human soul.

There is a deep feeling hidden within me when I read the writings of philosophers, philosophers that talk of certainty, metaphysics, and theology, and take it seriously. That deep feeling and thought is they are the true fools, I have been and am a fool (we all are, sometimes that’s what defines the beauty that resides within our pathos) this stems from, i believe (as i have not fully dissected my thought process on why I feel that way) that feeling stems from that they are writing for their own sake, if they felt they had to save others from their turmoil, they would not write at all, because there is no certainty (a paradoxical statement, i’m aware, so take it lightly and in the general sense) so in their writings of these philosophies, they are deepening their readers madness, rather than lifting it, but if a man writes from a place of empathy, as perhaps camus and sartre, (amongst others, i haven’t read much as of yet) they find a means to nullify the pain and insanity surrounding the world’s thinkers, so let us not philosophise life and its mystery, let us philosophise feeling! Let us say, as the human race, to life itself, “We do not need an answer! For we have found love!” and let us say to those men incapable of feeling love, or are too egotistical to, i.e the men in charge of the world, “You are stupid, so I will not concern myself of your stupidity, I will concern myself of my own foolishness, and find beauty in it! I will live a fool, I will live a lover, I will pledge myself and my being to people I love, to a woman, and to the human race!” and life will not reply, or maybe it will, but the point is, you won’t know, because you won’t care…

The Idea of Suicide

Emil Cioran once said in an interview that the idea of suicide is what has allowed him to live freely, and with this, I agree. Keep an area in your Ethaticies free, a room for perhaps our final state, ‘The Idea’, many things can fall into this category, all “Ideas” that construct some form of empathy. If you create a story that represents something, such as Nietzsche’s “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” was an idea from “The room that is never empty”, for it is not. When all rooms may seem empty, you feel you have no one, no one to love, laugh with, befriend, care for is appreciate the silence with, the room of ‘The Idea’ will become your fuel, you can or will create something out of that room, “But what if I have no ideas” there is always an idea, and it is the most important and vital one, ‘The Idea of Suicide’. If one values that death is an open door for them, they will become immortal, infinitely finite, never dying while one must live. There is always a final escape, “Then what of the worry of the uncertainty surrounding the afterlife!” Then if you fear that what comes after death is worse than what you live, do not die my friend, it is simple. You create peace, not by denying darkness, but by consoling it.

Remind yourself that nostalgia is merely evidence of a life you are proud of, you may say “But I am not proud now” but you are, in another five years you may feel your life has worsened, but you will look back on the place you are in now with longing, this is the evidence of pride, do not let nostalgia fool you into a life of yearning, yearn only as a means to replace the need for certainty, and soon that yearning will cease to, well, be. Look at your life in fondness, as you do not have much of it, or maybe you do, but why risk it? Maybe you will repeat your life endlessly as Nietzsche suggested, maybe your atoms will align throughout the universe again and your life will be relived exactly the same as it was, but do not think about such questions, for they fall into the ‘Why?’ and not the ‘What.’ which is what matters. Do not be angry at yourself, but if you are, feel that, forgive yourself after. You are going to be okay, and if like me, your standard of okay is what mine is, then I am sorry, but at least you are okay. I ask you to read my works, and appreciate that my greatest wish is a contradiction to my philosophy itself, I wish to save the world, which is just as painful as the search for certainty, for I am not a god, but then again, perhaps all of us are the very gods we invented, but that is besides the point. To save the world spread my words as though it is a gospel, religion only consoles a handful of men, whereas a real philosophy, written by one man and written by greater men after him, will stand as a great attempt to heal those who do not believe in what we regard as ‘fiction made by man to heal the panic surrounding life after death, have your life be in the hands of a god’. They will understand that what is written is from the heart of a man who feels just as deeply as they did, or perhaps they believe I did not feel as deeply as they did, and to that I say “That is fair,” as I believe there are few man if any who feel as deeply as I do, but I have hope that there can be, and within that hope in humanity you will agree that these words must be spread. Please… join me in foolishness.

The Elsewhere

There is something else embedded into the depths of our psyche, something that precedes even the need to talk to ‘The Lover/The Loved’. It sits alone in the darkness of the night, when all others seem distant, and it speaks to itself, it begs, it pleads, or it sits alone in silence.

God is dead, and I am the one who killed him. If god is real, I will kill him, end his reign, I will find a way, no matter how foolish it sounds, I have said once before, I embody The Fool, for I am his inventor, I am his god, only I am not a god, I am a boy, and his time is through.

Life and Death

Everything I see now, while typing this, will be gone upon death.

In the moments of death:

A position one cannot put oneself in, until death is upon them.

I would stand alone, listening to my favourite songs, I would be stupid, just for a moment, because when that moments ceases to exist as do I.

If able to imagine my thoughts upon death, and the possibility of my appreciation for music and ‘becoming stupid’ why can I not do this now?

My friend, the world is ineffable. There are moments of bleakness and banalities. There are moments of joy and fulfilment, there is love, we live, we feel, we think, we are. We are not by choice, but by the choice of love. Love decides us to be conceived. Appreciate what there is to be appreciated, rather than concerning oneself over the latter. Stay out of the way. Live in a loving solitude, with a lover, a child, a pet. Wish to be a father, it will change your life. I do not know why I am writing this, I suppose the beauty of it is that it is not philosophical, but it is truth, truth in the general sense, truth with awareness that there is no truth, but acceptance regardless, truth that you are here, even if a hallucination, whatever entity you may be if you exist at all, you are here, or at least you think you are, but you will never know, so why ask?

On The Tenet of Happiness and Impermanence.

Is it true, if so is it a pursuit, can it be found.

Do we really want it?

Every human is sad, or they think they are, or they’re sad because they want to be. Every human is sad, i’ve formed this judgement purely based on the disposition that upon weaving one’s soul with yours, they force you to share their pain out of trust, no matter how little this pain may be, it is yours now to share, this is trust. Many humans think they are sad. The melancholic melodies we let confide within us, confides not just within us by sound, but by changing how we feel. The television shows we watch, the time we spend on our phones, it is all extraordinarily depressing knowing that we have full access to the saddest of things. Certain people romanticise this idea of melancholy, and so others listen to these people, and together they bathe in their self inflicted melancholy, a celebration of pain, a pain that shouldn’t be real, but is. The same reason goes for why we want to be sad. Happiness in today’s world is something people have grown awfully envious of, and so with this, we have belittled this pursuit, and created the pursuit of sadness. Most men pursue pain rather than happiness.

In their moments of death, their last minutes. They will reflect on the life they have lived, and after death it won’t matter, but in their last moments, they will feel the worst feeling of all. A nostalgic yearning for the ‘what once was’, a ‘was’ that they can never return to, a was that simply was, and these men who strived for pain and lived in spite of goodness, will wish to return to the was to change the can. We can change the can. These emotions regard that of a man of true intellect, intellect that stems from their reason, not their envy of the intelligent.

I am not dying. I am not spiteful. Yet, despite this, I long for the what once was, not the what can. I yearn for this, I yearn impeccably. It is all I do, and it is destructive.

So in conclusion, maybe in my final moments, I will feel that of which i have just explained. Maybe I am a man that is intelligent only through envy, rather than my reason, maybe i crave melancholy, I am a young man and I ask for anyone listening. Don’t we all?

The Oddness Of Superstition

Despite my beliefs I would say i am a heavily

superstitious man. I would for example let the time on my phone dictate whether my life is going in the correct direction, if i saw the numbers 22:22, i would believe it naturally to be a sign. A certain song may play at a certain place while i am thinking of a certain person and this song links to said person. All humans must naturally believe in some form of higher power as we are devout of hope. When ‘Signs’ appear during life on so many occasions one must begin to trust in these signs wholeheartedly, or maybe not wholeheartedly, but to an extent and depending on the situation they may even let said superstitions decide matters that cannot concern your judgment.

We are all devout of knowing, we are devout of true hope, to believe in a divine power is a contradiction to my beliefs, not my beliefs that a god doesn’t exist, as i believe in uncertainty, but in my beliefs that if a god did exist, he is purely the embodiment of evil.

If Nietzsche’s god is dead, then good riddance. Not all Christians are inherently bad because they believe in such a divine devil, some are good humans, open to interpretation. Christianity is an understandable religion for simple-minded people with unexplainable pain to confide in, they seldom spread the gospel. Hitherto Christianity has either been critiqued and dissected, or highly praised as the birth of life. It is seldom accepted.

Within you there is good. I promise you.

Within me there is good. You promised.

Within us there is good. We promised.

Within humanity. There is humanity.

Within humanity, there is.

Within us, there is.

Within me, I am.

Us, we are.

It’s such a strange world isn’t it, riddled and engulfed with obscurity in every sense, nothing is ever fully known nor discovered, and if it is, it is contradicted with uncertainty. I do not question the ‘Why?’ as you know, ever since I have taught myself to understand the ‘What.’ I have become much less entangled with such things, but in these moments of The Elsewhere, which have become nightly experiences for me, I sit and think, “What of my future? I don’t attend college, I am lazy, I drink a lot and poison my body with alcohol and tobacco, my parents do not understand me and my father doesn’t care to, I have experienced nothing but change my entire life, am I human? Or am I just a well written character in someone’s story which depicts depression, loneliness, being a thinker, I am just an embodiment of another man’s philosophy? Perhaps it is that second man inside of me who invented it, as a means to help me, god cannot, I will never assign myself to his conniving and evil ways, the devil cannot, I will never assign myself to his conniving and evil ways. But love. Love is the one thing I believe I can put my faith into, the love in me, which is embodied through my girl, Cailyn Knight, a simple woman, yet one who’s voice sounds like no other, one who’s laugh touches me like no other, ones who’s smell radiates from wherever she is right to my nose, one who’s appearance is so ethereal it is impossible a god could have created such beauty, if heaven is real, we know it is not god who created it, because she is heaven, and no one could create something as masterful as her. Everyday I consider killing myself, but i’ve been burdened with the gift of empathy, I know others feel as I do and don’t have the words to say it and, like me, yearn to be understood and to be known and to be loved, so I must write to them, write for them. I will live my life unhappy, if it means millions of others will feel known and discovered, like the book they just read was written for them, that specific soul. So to everyone out there, I am coming, not to save you, not to keep you from death, but to try, and I will dedicate my very existence to you. To all of you, so wait for me.

This is a deeply personal collection of random philosophical works that I have accumulated and written over the past few months. For the people that do read this, I hope you appreciate the thought, time and effort I poured into this philosophy. It is fractured, it is broken and deeply personal, and it will be born anew in the future, I wish to help the world, heal as much as I can. Thank you everyone.