Elements of a Turbulent Love

One upon a cognition
a woman fell for a man
Who taught her things about herself
she didn’t quite understand

A sentimental logician
at the mercy of his lust
Yet she could analyze anything
until it was nothing but dust

Elements of a turbulent love
Like a tattered fabric of time
They came undone

A romance so complicated
More complicated than astrophysics
Maybe Venus fucked Pluto
They had a love so twisted

Stars can’t shine without darkness
It has been said
She could think of infinite ways to both
love and hurt her man

Each day he tested her limits
No one could make her feel
so dead yet so alive
But like the glass she shattered
She could cut through his lies

She could smell his bull shit
through the foggiest mist
As she threw him in the air
he got crushed by an ugly black abyss

Elements of a Turbulent love
Like a tattered fabric of time
They came undone

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Space Beach

A flaxen-haired woman travelled
to an intergalactic land
With fluorescent water
and mushroom-covered sand
When she ran across the beach
orange spores sprayed her face
Weightless like gold glitter
raining in hyperspace

She saw the world through
brand-new eyes
Every colour of the spectrum
Pixelated electric skies
Infrared and
Ultraviolet and
Gamma Rays

Like Jupiter retrograde she
knew no limitations
Higher than the highest
Bird of Paradise
She could shine brighter
than every constellation
While she laid on the beach
she saw herself through the selenite

No one could dream quite
as big as she could
She was so distant yet so close
like the light of a distant flame
At one she was with the
Great Cosmic Brotherhood
To understand the origins
of her true birthplace

She knew out there
she wasn’t alone
Quantum tunneling
looks like an ice cream cone
But who is all part
of this great design?
Maybe aliens do philosophize
Maybe they can answer all
our questions still unknown

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Star Child

Oh how Time and Space
Took us so far
The Galactic Gods used some of the arrow
To carve out holes in the sky
And elegantly call them stars

From them I hang
Far above the bioluminescent trees
Those constellations so beautifully aligned
Contemplating metaphysics
Juggling moons in the air
And shifting paradigms

Heidegger taught me the ‘thingness of a thing’
And ‘timeness of time’
How can something so complex
Ever be circumscribed?

Floating in a universe
With no beginning or end
Yet it expands and contracts
Like those fractals in the colossal womb
From which I have descended

Unfastened the nebular veins
Red fluid washes over us
Old life lost, new life gained
Born and dead a millionth time
All things come full circle
Broken and rearranged

A nascent star child
The fabric holds me in one embrace
Giving me heat, giving me light
Like an interstellar fireplace

Through which I see my mirror image
The spectrum of light ablaze
In the midst of a fractured sleep
Throughout the cosmic roadways

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Poisonous Paedagogy and Anomalous Mute Woman

Seated in the beige confines, they disquietly watch the skinny hands on the circle of death spin. Why are chronometers round? Is time not linear? Does time even have a shape or can it even be quantified?

They don’t ask such questions lest the bitter paedagogue calls them out for being ‘absurd’. In sickly sweet acquiescence, they all struggle to reiterate every syllable of those disparate and inconsequential facts, only to become exiguous verbal soup laid bare so raw like a revolting collection of catarrh and black blood.

Then, one acolyte of thirty-three projectile vomits her multi-coloured cereal all over the linoleum floor. As disgusting as that paroxysmal reaction was, something had to break up the monotony of that day. That fiasco certainly did.

Child number fifteen just wants to leave that place and venture to some dark uncharted territory and throw spears at the heterogeneity of constellations in the sky. His parents work eighty hours a week to anesthetize themselves from the reality that they are nothing other than empty vessels making noise. They have no need for original thought anymore.

Somehow, the timeless and potent inquiries about why we are here and who the fuck we are have been relegated to a frigid and ugly slumber. Those philosophy books, so elegantly written, were just carelessly tossed in the mouldy cellar of the institution. He continues to scribble on the blackboard. It is opaque so as to prevent the students from self-reflecting. They’re as rudimentary as helpless electronic birds trapped in an oxidized metal cage, flapping their wings but going nowhere. And they come full circle. Are we not more than the sum and the interaction of our mechanized parts?

Who can see through the smoke and prisms? When they remove themselves from their constricted angle of vision to gaze in self-reflection, what will they see?

Faceless masses.

The fire had been lost long ago by the vicious winds of an ominous change. The Nutritive Soul putrefied into a cold and dry mass like the dusty particles of the fractured chalk. Perhaps the fluorescent lights in the chamber serve to be the last kindle of hope in a Post-Millenial Dark Age.

A comely copper-haired woman standing in the corner, who hitherto existed in a different realm of time and space, is astonished in the worst way by this atrocity, this… unpleasant qualia soup. She doesnt really know what words are sufficient to describe such a reality.

No one else in the room acknowledges she is there. She telepathically utters profanities to her cat back on her planetary orb. First, about the anachronistic paraphernalia. Next, about the horrifying scent of thermoplastic polymer ‘cheese’ product entering her nasal passages. ‘What the fuck is all this?’, serves to be such a simple yet effective way of expressing her aversion.

Suddenly, she looks ahead and sees the grotesque face of the fax machine reciprocating her glare. Her apprehension escalates. Then, she sees the circular chronometer on the left side of the chamber. ‘Why do all these limitations exist? We should just get rid of every single one of these fucking clocks.’

She can see so clearly that these children are perpetually confronted by the same fears and fixations that they had learned from day one, of which they have no conscious recollection. But somehow they still use it to stroke their existential worry of unfamiliarity.

One by one, the acolytes turn on their iPads, and suddenly an obscuring barrage of cacophonous sounds enters her ears. She is overwhelmed by this admixture of unpleasant noises. She quickly ambulates across the room and, in a state of uncharacteristic rage, throws the instructor out the window, whereby he is shredded apart by a black mass in space. She proceeds to defenestrate the remainder of the humans in the room- the students.

Nothingness realizes itself through a fractured sky.

She runs out the door and through the long hallway.

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Synthetic Bread and Electric Circuses

An outsider critically looking into the monstrous bubble, she sees sychophants, swindlers, morons, and other caricatured, anthropomorphized machines. It’s like a post-modern circus, but without the bright colours, quasi-food, clowns, and dysphonic musical loops. What if the world were some prodigious arrangment of outlined blank images, akin to a colouring book but with infinite pages, and we were all given free reign to fill them in for our individual purposes? There is something so galvanizing about making crazy, hypothetical inquiries. To accept reality as it appears is to viciously shut and lock the door of ontological possibilities.

She doesn’t want to play their superficial games or take thoughtless action, because what is it all going to mean in the end? Is there even an end or a beginning? Instead, she stands at a distance, mentally traversing controlled chaos, observing and reflecting. She sees the grotesque mechanization, the horrific transmutation of man into machine and the monotony of the ugly serpent slithering itself into his mental repository until all he knows is the process of perpetuation. Wash, rinse, repeat in the metaphorical valley of tedious water. How did their lives eventuate to such a nugatory existence? Maybe meaninglessness is ubiquitous, but at least she is one of the few who questions the very fabric of reality. When the threads unravel, what will there be?

The sun sets and the hour of dusk commences. She is encircled by a nocturnal firmament with a few scattered stars and stands helpless in the face of an existential predicament. Walking in circles with her boney hand covering one side of her forehead. The vaster than vastness of space makes her feel small, but she knows uncomfortable situations help us grow. A mellifluous stream of “old” music starts playing in her mind. First, it is just a faint sound, as if coming from some extraordinarily distant audiomachine, but the music gets louder. Spontaneous imagery arises in her mind and, rather quickly, her melancholia changes into idiotic cachinnation. She laughs so hard, she begins to cry like a neonate who just descended from an immense cosmic womb and is seeing everything for the first time.

The spectrum of emotions washes over her like diamond rain on Saturn and Jupiter. She almost drowns in her tears, but such an emotional reaction is a cathartic release. And, she has a revelation. Why do we take life so seriously? These colours, sounds, images, odours, people, and other phenomena on Nature’s Theatre are just rearrangmeets of simple, elementary particles. When we relive the same experience, our perception of such qualia changes anyway.

She continues to ambulate, this time in a straight direction rather than a circle. On the pavement, she discovers fragments of used cigarettes and two stale cinnamon rolls. Just enjoy the absurdity of it all. She reminds herself of this each time she descends into an abyss of cosmic confusion, trying to locate a semblance of meaning in her life and the life of everyone else.

She never finds it. She is not certain about anything, but that’s okay. She experiences newfound happiness and humility and can be nothing more than optimistic about her next philosophical journey.

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Candy-coated Absurdity

Confounded, I stand in a white void that’s so abhorrently opaque, save for those elusive yet blatant photonic emissions, flashing and going out of focus. The process repeats inummerable times. Next, I nonchalantly ambulate, yet I feel like I’m going nowhere. I’m surrounded by so many people, within no less than a ten foot radius from my vicinity, yet I feel like I am as distant from them as Neptune from the Sun. I’m colder than water and swimming through the torrents of my thoughts. Though I am stuck in my head, I feel more exposed than a virus that has been viciously deprived of its capsid- that complex, yet diaphanous layer composed of repeating protein subunits. How do such tiny entities arrange themselves to create something with such potent biological abilities? How do the laws of nature operate to create this persistent yet complicated web we call reality? No matter how old we get, we never reach certainty in any intellectual endeavour. Keep that childlike curiosity.

The subservience to the newest and “hottest” transitory fad, I detest more than absolutely anything, yet those virtual candy games have a way of educing vicarious hunger from me. But, it is nothing more than a mosaic of simulated comestibles on a palm-sized computer screen. Even the hardest of realists find the notion of soft-centered candy-coated calorie-free confectionery nonsense to be so gustatorily appealing. By the same token (see what I did there? *nudge*), even the most futuristic of visionaries, occasionally, get rained upon with nostalgic candy and want to relive their picturesque past. Even if it is for ten minutes to talk to their younger selves, the person they had transcended on their co-created timeline known as life.

I wonder, if machines which electronically record and rewind odours would cause more harm than good if invented and made into yet another trend? Could they cause such traumatic memories to resurface from people so as to lead to mass suicide? Olfaction is psychologically linked to memory and, frankly, retrospection is not always so rosey, so I canot preclude the possibility of an emphatic YES to the latter inquiry.

I go for hours suppressing my hunger as I cannot always differentiate between that which is physical and that which is psychological. Self-discipline is self-mastery. And I’m trying to pay attention to the other person talking to me, but I’m too spaced out to give them my full attention. Gastroesophageal reflux commences and I feel like a sentient doll that was force-fed and is about to projectile vomit battery acid from her stitched mouth. She comes undone. Maybe, in some parallel universe, a living quantum copy of me is undergoing that very process and my acid reflux parallels that very thing. She’s a living, breathing “voodoo doll” in another realm of space. Do we need Occam’s Chainsaw yet? Maybe.

I want to chop off that creepy doll’s head but I’m exhausted. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, from yet another week even though I have far fewer stressors in my life than many other people. But that’s the strange thing about subjectivity. And we all have our personalized hedonic tone. Whose to say one person’s pleasure, pain, or even lack of either is “more valid” than another?

What if nothing is real? And reality is nothing?

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An Essay on Personality and Self: Authentic versus Inauthentic

All that is visible, tangible, cognizable, or otherwise can be grasped and interpreted with our sensory and intellectual faculties are not permament. Everything and everyone, save for the certain elusive variables which are impervious to spatial and temporal events, are subject to inevitable mutation. Personality, or the combination of characteristics and qualities which comprise an individual’s character, is not exempt from such a process of transformation. It is true that each individual is equipped with a particular set of psychological inclinations towards which they are naturally predisposed, but there is no denying that every single one of us, including our personality profiles, is shaped and modified according to the sum of our life circumstances, people with which we surround ourselves, and the knowledge derived therefrom. What each of us emerges into this world as is scarcely more than a biological network of potentialities. No completeness or wholeness is remotely close to having eventuated itself; even at the time of biological expiration, completeness never occurs.

So why are adjectives such as “fake” or “genuine”, “authentic” or “inauthentic” often used so casually to describe an individual’s personality or character? And, why do people tend to be dichotomized in such a way?

Firstly, it would help to elucidate such words, which can be defined in a few different ways. “Authentic” means that which is true, veritable, or legitimate. “Inauthentic” means the very opposite of this. From a philosophical perspective, “authentic” means that which is not impoverished of its essence or intrinsic nature. An authentic person is also one whose existence and transformation occur independently of any sociocultural expectations; in other words, a person who is intrinsically motivated.

Such terms used to describe other people can be fairly meaningless unless you know someone’s bona fide personality, as that would be the ontological grounds by which to make a comparison. But, how do you know what someone’s “real” personality actually is? How do you know when someone has coloured outside of their own personality delineation and where that delineation is even located? It cannot readily be identified, especially by another person. Theories and empirical assessments aside, we cannot ascertain 100% another indvidual’s personality. The most knowledge of personality would be that of our own, insofar as I am within the closest vicinity of the extent of my own formation and everything that ever was, is, and will be in it- the efflux of my consciousness as well as my past, present, and future- emanating outward towards all in its path and inward again.

I, like everyone else, contain essential and existential properties of what make me who I am, but a metaphysical question is what are those essential and existential characteristics? I, like everyone else, am also also function of time and, similarly, my personality is also function of all knowledge, or information shaped by understanding, that I have hitherto acquired. Accordingly, the different fragments of my personality constantly rearrange themselves in order to create a distinct permutation of me, at every given moment in time; Nonetheless, it is still me. There is a certain continuity of self through time which we are always maintaining, but in other ways, we are all transforming to various degrees.

Existential properties of a person are bound to change through time. Such changes, as I perceive it, only make for an inauthentic person if the person changes who they are according to sociocultural mandates or otherwise extrinsic variables. If a person alters their existential characteristics out of intrinsic motivation, or inner necessity, they are still being who they are. Bear in mind, it is a transformation of the self, but they are still “them”, you are still “you”, and I am still “me”.

There is going to be some level of precariousness in every individual. The colours of someone’s personality can’t be expected to reveal themselves in an identical way throughout their life as humans are highly complex biological systems. If certain colours of your personality are revealing themselves out of inner necessity or desire, and not merely according to your environment, there is no inauthenticity. Besides, predictability is boring.

This brings me to the maxim, “First impressions mean everything”. I, personally, do not subscribe to such a line of thought as a first impression provides scarcely more than a fragmentary view or an abridgment of the totality of everything that makes someone who they are. If someone, whom I meet for the first time, presents themselves to me as being rude or disagreeable, and that same person is ostensibly more gregarious and loquacious, and furthermore is talking to me about very interesting topics during our second encounter, that person perhaps is revealing a different colour of their personality towards me. Perhaps the person’s behaviour is manifesting itself a certain way as a result of genuinely felt emotions. The different impression said person bestowed upon me does not entitle me to the conclusion that the person is “fake” or “inauthentic”. They are complex and precarious, just like the rest of us.

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