philosophical-musings

Oh, gentlemen, perhaps I really regard myself as an intelligent man only because throughout my entire life I've never been able to start or finish anything. Granted, granted I'm a babbler, a harmless, irksome babbler, as we all are. But what's to be done if the sole and express purpose of every intelligent man is babble--that is, a deliberate pouring from empty into void.

We may be pilgrims passing through this world, but let's not be grim-pills in the process!

Sleep like you can never be deadDream as if you have a soul inside your head

If you lived a good life, you either lived to save or died to save_ that which must be saved and kept. Your life would never be meaningless. Not even for a moment.

Don't, but if at all, then, lie to the whole damn world - never to your own damn, silly stupid self.

Live joyfully this life. Once gone, who knows if we ever get it back. Atheists think we do not. Mystics say you will. Either way, chill.

Remember, you are as dispensable as the most indispensable king of kings, the mighty lord of silly worldly men.

Were I but perfectly normal, I would just not be.

I had an enemy - myself. Getting rid of the ego-self, in came the Self. Now, here, there, everywhere is nothing else. Just One Self.

I have to tell you the truth. But you are too ugly for it.

But that is the way of life, and that was but one of the first times, among no few to come, that I was taught a useful lesson about how appearances trump truth, and how villains hide their vices behind masks of piety, honour, and decency. And that to denounce evildoers without proof, attack them with weapons, trust blindly in reason or justice, is often the fastest road toward one's own perdition, while the scoundrels who use influence or money as a shield remained untouched.

All is a forever.

Scott glanced at his watch but didn't register what it said. The notion of time had become as absurd as the quietly glowing trees.

I have begun to wonder where I came from. The person I am now, this fumbling, stumbling supplicant... was I built on the foundations of my old life, or did I rise from the grave a blank state? How much of me is inherited, and how much is my own creation? Questions that were once just idle musings have begun to feel strangely urgent. Am I firmly rooted to what came before? Or can I choose to deviate?

Deciding to wait, Scott sat down with a pint away from the bar at a corner table and lit a cigarette. The clientele in there on Sunday afternoon were the same as most other afternoons. From middle-aged to old men, drinking and cursing at the world like it was the last bus which had just left the stop without them.

Sometimes truths are what we run from, and sometimes they are what we seek.

Like billiard balls colliding our courses were altered.

Though death might still the show, life would be the most critiqued act of our existence. Own your stage.