Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Tag: philosophy

Seasons

Is it really true---what they say,

“One life ends, Another one begins.”

If so, is it the best one could wish for?

We live in a strange reality, one in which the best lessons are taught with loss and death. We survive the perished, and live our days breathing leftover air.

We go to different places, make new bonds, start and restart new lives---each a second chance, all to one way or another, make up for what we could not rescue in the first place.

"We'll do it Better this time."

It's not so sad as it is bittersweet, like the passing and rebirthing of seasons.

Tough Love from Orwell

” There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own life time. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future.
We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. “

George Orwell

 

 

Not Yet Ready for March

Crowded places filled with gazes of much un-needed Inquiry:
Curious, tense, lustful, and envious—mostly afraid—
Vexing to the extremities of bone.

Can’t a Brother eat alone
Without getting smothered by cloudy and judging glances?

damn unwholesome souls
lurking rampant on this Earth

so disturb me;
perpetually motivated from outwards, of which’s approval they seek;
must we ceaselessly suck like maggots
and compete with one another in nothing
but creature obsessions? 

Escaping the suffocating boxes of Men (and Women too),
Rows of densely packed Crackles sing like
Stereotypical Hispanic Aunties,
Fast and incessantly energetic—
Sitting on the power lines, they look like
Lines of blotched ink, so morbidly jet black,
That a weak mind may just mistake them
For a bad, bad omen—

and can we stop reducing our fellow creatures
into metaphors of our own mere understandings? 

You see, it might just be a rest stop
Along the journey of their mass, seasonal migrations—
Amongst themselves, a make-shift conference is undergoing.

A slow walk toward less crowded blocks,
Outdated Post Offices and Abandoned Factories,
Peeling Paints; Corroded Metal Beams—
Ironically, at such sights, the soured Heart sits more at ease;
Maybe they remind Us of our lost
But once True Essence,

Now empty shells, waiting to be swallowed up
Whole, down the fat, fat belly of the Real Estates,
and gentrified into “Creative Work Spaces.”

Looking into the dark corners of these obsolete Sentinels,
A pair of dimly gleaming green eyes peer back
in Innocent Caution; a Young Black Feline.

“Hey there, Friend.” You say.

For it is a rare encounter, after all,
On this humid Dusk quickly morphing into total Night Fall,
It is only you and the cat
Keeping Sigil at the Graves, six feet under which
Lay the molding corpses of the Earnest and Industrious.

Eventually, this on-foot excursion ended,
Leaving you atop an empty garage, possibly
Another tasteless fruit of some Real Estate Empire—
The view falls far short of what you anticipated:
Foggy flatlands scattered with boxes containing men and women
who mostly busy themselves glancing at each other.

A breeze blows, but does not freshen your face.

Oh February of 2018,
You stubborn Animal,
Must you so soon leave us empty handed?
I dreamt of more adventures in your bleakness.

Star Gazing in The Rain

97FD69FE-CCC0-4C58-8D52-827C638DEA9D

A hundred thousand galaxies flourished and died, beautifully tragic and splendid, all in the relative few seconds, in which we sat dazed, watching as drops of rain glided past our windows. 

Revelation

could occur so suddenly, that the truth becomes more shocking than revelatory

Do We All, and Always, Run and Hide?

There is no Pill
Or Beverage

That can fix
It
All—

One can run,
Into the open,
Escape the slaving dungeon,

But darkness
Follows, and condenses
Wherever He should

Lay to Rest—

One can forever
Run,
Only to realize

A Life’s Time
Is not enough
To hide.

So Young one,
You and your
Unspent Beauty,

Take to the Strenuous strides;

Learn to work
In darkness,
But resting in Light.

Enjoying and Suffering the Passions

“Once you suffered passions and called them evil. But now you have only your virtues left: they grew out of your passions…And whether you came from the race of the choleric or the voluptuous or the fanatic or the vindictive:

All your passions in the end became virtues, and all your devils angels.

Once you had wild dogs in your cellar: but they changed at last into birds and charming singers.

Out of your poisons you brewed your balsam; you milked your cow, misery—now you drink the sweet milk of her udder.”

—Nietzsche.

Tolls of Being “Loved by gods”

” ‘You don’t understand me, Harry,’ answered the artist. ‘Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.’ ”

—Basil from The Picture of Dorian Gray

Dare Not

Say “Thank you so much for your understanding,” or “You are so nice!”—for my extension of kindness and empathy arises mostly from insufferable personal defects.

I like being the helping hand; doing so grants me an alternate sense of purpose, which I mainly deploy to escape from my own fatal flaws and obstacles.

My obligate alliance with an often-times unconditional compassion is rooted, like an oxymoron, in absolute cruelty. Prior to witnessing the finer and more praiseworthy virtues in all, instincts drive me to instead, first explore each and everyone’s deepest vulnerabilities and darkest fears. The innate knack for understanding how to scar a human beyond the point of his/her recovery, is all mine. It is due to my fear of these racing, caustically detrimental insights, that I strive to behave in the other polar-extreme.

As if a sponge, my essence and motivation lie largely external—intrinsic incentives do not nearly invoke the same type of joy in me:

Allow me into your life, love, so I would finally have a reason to improve myself—count on me, so I could help myself to be of most efficient and useful help to you.

This is my constant mentality. No needs from those around me, and I become stagnant and putrid, an cesspool of all lamentable human qualities.

I hate but need and crave to be used. Give me the illusion of being exclusively needed; give me the eventual misery of being exploited. I love it all. I love it all because otherwise I have no excuse to live—the greatest gift of all, most days is but a joke.

I’ve got a thing; I’ve got a thing resembling the defining feature of stereotypical introverts: heightened sensitivity to external stimuli. In this case, a personally predisposed concentration on all sentiments.

Rationality: to be a writer, one must successfully to become not one, but many—the causal relationship between the two skills is arguably and easily interchangeable. 

In public quarters, I feel the Many. The urges and frustrations and anticipations and ecstasies and passions and sorrows of all presence in sight—their so-called “vibes” and “energies,” like the very air which we all share, saturate the large, empty vessel within, and I become, without free-will, the Many. AND THEY CLASH AND BOUNCE FIERCELY IN MY CURSED CHEST TO ITS BRINK OF UNATTAINABLY BURSTING INTO CRIMSON PIECES.

Inspect my countenance: absent-minded, aloof, even pretentiously in bad taste—reality says I’m hiding, suppressing, desperately swallowing the Many, so I won’t collapse.

You must understand…human emotions, they are nothing but heavy. I feel my senses crushed dumb by such thick density—short circuiting the designed tolerances of my making, overheating and exhausting it towards the verge of being fried, beyond saving.  

Because of this, in the face of those desolate and needy and decrepit (even if seemingly), their dark stains I feel perfusing into my preferred blank sheet. Thus, out of a selfish need to rid of their emotional imprisonment over me—to temporarily erase the good troubled conscious,  I am urged into “goodwill” and “niceness,” dropping my task at hand, tending to the tragedy at their hands, and frequently in futile attempt, to put them, and me, at ease.

 

 

Faith in Ideal

Paraphrasing:

True divinity is the condensation of an universal, collective consciousness that is rooted in compassion, peace, and wisdom. The worshipping of such is silent and solitary, yet free from all self-serving ends. Each spiritual experience is personal, distinct from another, and should not be judged upon or meddled with—each soul ought to strive to become conscious of the divinity that is itself. 

Faith shall not be underlined by the conventional, repressive dogma that is advocated by manipulative creeds—no shrine or temple aspire to the process of mankind care-taking for nature, nor do they avert the human civilization from falling deeper into the de-evolutionary notions of oppression and power.

The divine comprises no absolute messiahs, instead, it constitutes an all reaching awareness that which rescues each being by inspiring it towards greater intents.