I thought wisdom lay in
my optimism, but only the forgetful are happy. It is the wise who are content
to live each day as it comes neither uplifting nor diminishing those around
them. I cannot believe that happiness lies serving all of mankind. It is a
perversion this “godliness”, this incessant desire to tame and protect all that
can and all that will harm man. What of those plants and animals who die living
through the course of that particular form of being. If you truly see we are
immortal, consuming and being consumed by each other living forever as the
wind, the star and the little peel of orange.
How is anyone to say that collective happiness is the most excellent form of eudemonia?
How can anyone presume that this will bring to fruition any form of equality?
All these are only means to approach equality and they may be farther or closer to equality than each other but by no means are they equality. Our instincts are not yet dead, our wisdom not yet expunged to see that these are truthlikeness and not the truth itself. To be in the midst of life and see that it is not the world and I but that the world and I are just two aspects of the same thing, two planes of a singular object is the art of living. Cry not, laugh not, pain not and you will see a vivid beauty the likes of which you can rarely see otherwise. To understand that the source of these comforts and discomforts is us, ourself and therefore cease to entertain them thereafter is the greatest gift one can give to oneself. This is wisdom, I have come to see and now I must let go. Imagine then what we might do by not doing anything. What beings we might be? I can see it. I can feel it. I will go there now.
Slowly.
Ever so slowly.
How is anyone to say that collective happiness is the most excellent form of eudemonia?
How can anyone presume that this will bring to fruition any form of equality?
All these are only means to approach equality and they may be farther or closer to equality than each other but by no means are they equality. Our instincts are not yet dead, our wisdom not yet expunged to see that these are truthlikeness and not the truth itself. To be in the midst of life and see that it is not the world and I but that the world and I are just two aspects of the same thing, two planes of a singular object is the art of living. Cry not, laugh not, pain not and you will see a vivid beauty the likes of which you can rarely see otherwise. To understand that the source of these comforts and discomforts is us, ourself and therefore cease to entertain them thereafter is the greatest gift one can give to oneself. This is wisdom, I have come to see and now I must let go. Imagine then what we might do by not doing anything. What beings we might be? I can see it. I can feel it. I will go there now.
Slowly.
Ever so slowly.