An eye to the heavens calls the rain so it may water the arid field of your existence before the consternation finally sets your world ablaze. Endeavoring to know what your purpose is, “who you are,” you turn to everyone but yourself. Several minutes pass—nigh the time and you’re still deprived of what answer that’s sought.
And with one caliginous sweep you’re enveloped by uncertainty now awash in the eventide of your final day.
We will not discuss the numerous philosophical systems by which one may take hold and operate by, but rather we’ll discuss the means by which an individual is built through his or her journeys in life. The drubbing that pounds the question “who am I” so that serenity always fails to great the disconsolate—now you’ll have your answer: “I am who I’ve made myself.”
The Spartan when asked, “Just how far is it that your eyes can see,” replied, “It is as far as my spear can reach.”
The world is your armory and you’ll choose your weapons to either succeed or fail. Through the conquest of your self you’re judged by what armies you raise and what weapons you chose when this war is waged.
It’s the mark of a fool to look further than that which he can actually reach, not realizing what needs to be done and how he has to prepare if he wishes to touch whatever goals standing before him. Looking at a distant object as though you can touch it with only your hands will not get you far. The Spartan saw how his goals have to be met with equal understanding so that one’s means of conquest matches the object of his or her intended domination.
Does your individuality, your strength of character, lie in the colour of your hair? If so, then like Samson when his hair was shorn, is all strength lost. You can ink your body, pierce your skin, but you have not created a “you” by this alone, just as one will not create a house by painting a piece of lumber.
You aver, “ I’m an individual”—then show me how you’re armed, tell me what constitutes “you,” why you are fit to achieve whatever goals you seek.
The architect could adduce why his skyscraper is apart from a dung-wrought hut as he knows what tools he employed and what function the end of this serves. If I ask you why you are unique and you point to your hair, or the pin in your tongue, then it’s akin to the architect answering, “what is the benefit of your creation above and beyond a dung-hut,” by pointing to the awnings.
Everything is fuel for the furnace of the soul. Every person you meet and your associations made with them will define who you are. Your fire burns and you’ll either watch it grow or you’ll see it die depending on what aliments you’ve offered it.
Are you unique for the fact of your race—no, unless you’re willing to argue that you’re responsible for your ancestors’ actions, in which case I should condemn you for whatever iniquities that they’ve committed. The past is beyond your reach as it is not yours; neither are the actions of everyone that is not you. The essence of the individual lies in his or her thoughts and choices made, so the quiddity of “you” can only be captured by your mind and actions seen by the observer.
This is war and when I ask, “who carries the spear bred for conquest” you best not raise your hand and say “I,” and when the reason I ask of you, state: “unlike everyone else my spear is purple and was passed down by my ancestors.”
Casualties Of Contrast
We all know our earth to be a servant of the sun given that it’s not the sun’s nature to circle the earth. But what can we attribute this to, common knowledge or common sense?
The divide that separates the two is readily apparent when viewing those referred to as intellectuals. Does the fact that the average man knows much more than Aristotle did mean that this makes him superior? Or better yet, to address the fundamental issue: what did Aristotle know that you do not, and what do you know that he didn’t?
Common sense is what allows one to understand the relation of one concept to another, and how to progress by acting on this comprehension. Common knowledge is a dead-end without common sense, and this is the reason why one can simultaneously “know a lot,” yet not know what to do with it. If you can’t establish the connections between one concept and then another, you can build nothing but bricks piled upon bricks which amounts to a pile of bricks, not a sound, functional structure which is a building.
The misapprehension of this contrast has destroyed minds, causalities that mount with each day as buildings collapse and bodies come to rest under it. We trust this world to everyone but ourselves, never giving moment’s pause as to whom these intellectuals are, what makes them “intellectual.”
When viewing the sciences, now we can understand how doctors can be so thoroughly well educated while at once seeming to be totally devoid of common sense. This as well applies to any field of human interest—economics for example. The average economist not understanding the fundamental essence of economics can repeatedly come to erroneous conclusions born of spurious assumptions.
Such is the reason why an increase in the supply of money and credit expansion (inflation-proper) can be viewed as a panacea and “deflation,” in its illegitimate sense (falling prices), can be taken as an evil. Viewing “inflation” (illegitimately, an increase in prices) without seeing the cause, one devises remedies that stand in discord with reality.
And even if one is correct, using these terms in their proper sense, this doesn’t mean they can relate the meaning of this to their actions. Such is why one can understand a single concept, failing when it’s time to integrate this into the full-picture.
Did these people see the “forest,” that which is known through common sense or did they become compartmentalized to a point where only the individual tree is seen, but isn’t understood in relation to others.
You then become a collection of facts like an encyclopedia, putting aside that these “facts” may not even be true. Made like a loose connection of body-parts, you’re without functional strength. One part doesn’t work in harmony with another; one arm doesn’t know what the other is doing. When you’re forced to bear a load which isn’t limited to your confined understanding, you collapse like a lifter who’s trained only on machines but is now forced to storm against the burden of a free weight.
Regurgitation becomes your life story well known to anyone who has tripped and fallen into your sea of vomit.
Sophists Before The Fusillade
If I were to damn the sophists to a level in Hell, they’d be on equal standing with child-molesters and bawds. As with the former, all innocence is lost with everyone they touch, and as with the latter nothing sacred is held; every parting wind from the filthy cunt of a mouth stinks of violation so pungently that the senses of any reasonable man couldn’t help but to take offense.
Constructing an argument out of excrement wondering why when scrutiny’s applied, your argument under the magnifying lens, the wind to all around carries the smell of shit. You cry foul, yet everything smells foul when your stare is cast through the hole of a horse’s ass.
Power does not inhere in the ability to confound, and yet they act as though power rests in this. You come to them seeking answers and instead they meretriciously dance their way through an argument.
You approach the sophist as a mendicant with outstretched hands, leaving with a cunt-born river of blood streaming down your arms. The lips of Judas pressed to your face, and you’ve been betrayed with a kiss. You wanted the truth and instead were offered arguments devoid of substance, but you had the choice to either accept to reject it.
This is the clarion call for a war against ourselves, and allowing the sophists to answer it for us damns us to argue for the sake of arguing—arguing to impress anyone regardless of it’s the truth that you’re speaking. If this is what you aspire to, then by all means do so.
However everything comes at a price, and do know that if you can only “win” and impress by fallacious means, question those who you’re seeking the affection of. What are they worth to you.
The blind conformist and the mindless rebel are both genuflected at the alter of obedience. Exceedingly sequacious and infinitely ductile, both are destined to follow the lead of others in blind adherence or undiscerning rebellion. The hands of perverts endlessly mold their malleable spirits and whatever sanctity remains abandons them every time they’re touched.
Like some philosophical philanderer you sleep with anyone, heedless of who you’re in bed with. You become diseased and the blisters of infection form a constellation of scars illuminating your servile nature. “Question authority.” No, question how such people came to be considered authorities in the first place, then see if their reasoning was erroneous. Did they forsake the forest for the trees, confusing common knowledge with common sense, or do they take the view in full seeing the relation of one concept to another.
“Are you a leader or a follower,” this is presented as a false dichotomy. You follow those who are best fit to lead you to your goals, and you lead those you are best fit to accompany you to whatever ends wished. No one should seek to be a “leader.”
Life is a constant process of leading and following and given that you don’t know everything, also given that you know something, you learn from those who understand what you don’t, and you teach those who are bereft of what certain knowledge that you possess.
Contumaciously disregarding the truth because it is the truth, because others see it as so, not because you rightfully see it fit to believe otherwise, you blindly rebel. Like those who pay obeisance without first paying observation, you’re no different in nature; you both bow reactively, not proactively.
Peregrinations of the Apostate
“Disaster and destruction tend/To greater triumph in the end” Aleister Crowley
Every occurrence in your life is another stone toward the edifice that is “you.” One dealt measure of anguish and you’re bathing in despair as though tomorrow holds neither another day or a second chance. Then you come to renounce all that you’ve once believed with nothing left to support you.
Repining for the days when you more than just a shell of a man, your palms face your mouth with your fingers gouging your eyes, desperately trying to exhume the person sepulchered in the recesses of your mind.
You become an emaciated soul, surfeited with disgust to the point where no longer does your spirit have room for proper nourishment. But adversity and failure are necessary matters in the human experience. That’s how we learn, through failure, and that’s how we’re built, through experience.
Walking through the battlefield, an accumulation of successive failures wilts your spirit and forges a knife that you now have stressed to your throat. Staring into a mirror you see what little that’s left of you, the morass of delusion blocking your escape to a positive outlook. Now the choice is yours, you may either make the ultimate decision to adorn your throat with lacerations or you can use this knife to wage war.
If you choose to press on, understand that the world is great—as is life—if you take in the entire view, not just a perspective confined to the tortures of the present.
“Cast down in despair/With this one last breath of rancor/I dared to ask, “Who am I”/For still without an answer.”
Now the answer stands before you: you are what you’ve made. The crumbling structures that surround you fell to the ground, they surrendered, as they were never properly constructed to withstand the impact of scrutiny. Through these horrors of war you see the bodies of those who’ve taken their lives for their candle’s wick came to end after years of neglect, and their spirits couldn’t be rekindled.
You see the bone-strewn battlefield and you can gather these scattered fragments to form yourself properly and anew, you can try again without learning a damn thing then again to fail, or you can give up.
Life is war and your spirit is your weapon; constructing yourself out of reason or ignorance, enduring or enervated, you’ll either withstand or succumb to the blows.
Author’s note: special thanks to 2demon2 for honest criticism and good advice, and to all at Avant Labs for bearing with me as I picked up the pieces.