Tuesday • October 18th 2022 • 8:55:46 pm
Just like you are meant to become a great being, emerged out of Knowledge and Wisdom.
And an artist by finding your way, to trace the edge.
And a musician, but not without inventing your own instruments first.
A mong the one thousand and then some, other things.
You are meant to become a Poet too, it will take forever.
An old tradition, but it has not yet quite reached its potential.
The early Philosophers, would scribble tangents to explore.
And the lairs, thought to make coin by inventing fortune telling cards.
Today poetry is still an echo of it self, can’t talk about flowers.
Without having constructed, a complete garden first.
While we may not understand Humanity in full, it is well within our abilities...
To grasp that all the world's gardens, have to converge on wisdom to find peace.
Those who profit from harming the world, often imperceptibly so.
Will attempt to undo all the work, but those creatures lead simple, lives.
Those who will drive Humanity forward, are always overlapping, multiplexed together.
Neither a liar not a painted on culture, can outlast authentic, and worthy progress.
The in-authentic will fade, and peal, there is nothing there to last, at all.
But do not fear the complexity, it is an old rubber duck among the programmers.
There is nothing, too hard to understand.
We are travelers, and adventurers, and powerful navigators.
You’ll write your poems, and they will last, so as long as you get your landmarks right.
There are other maps, some worse than others.
Humanity's weaknesses are writ, in the books that lie the most.
But even recipes for control, can be reversed to help us heal.
Of the good maps, there are countless philosophers.
Many risen from their own ashes, who not only write poems.
Kosmos, By Walt Whitman
Who includes diversity and is Nature, Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also, Who has not look’d forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing, Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover, Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the æsthetic or intellectual, Who having consider’d the body finds all its organs and parts good, Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories, The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States; Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other globes with their suns and moons, Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations, The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.
Stories, of great challenge.
What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you:
'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!'
Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him:
'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.'
If this thought gained possession of you, it would change you as you are or perhaps crush you. The question in each and every thing, 'Do you desire this once more and innumerable times more?'
would lie upon your actions as the greatest weight.
Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life, to long for nothing! more!! fervently!, than for this ultimate eternal, confirmation and seal?
And some are perfectly compressed, down to an atom.
Socrates speaking "The unexamined life is not worth living.", challenging us to stop overwork, and begin living.
No one to unpack it better than Henry Thoreau,
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary.
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms...
They will remain unchained, for all the future of Human Kind, even as our bodies evolve, and we take to the stars.
Books are how our cultures advance, how we reach the future.
But, poems, sometimes writ into stories.
In pretty envelopes, to make the words carry farther.
Are what makes us, want to keep those books with us.
So every once in a while, we can re-read those lines again.
Call me Ishmael.
Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore,
I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
With a philosophical flourish, Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.
There is nothing surprising in this.
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
I think scarcely a poet, has ever come close to writing proper.
And the world is still waiting, for an honest book, that changes lives for the better, in reality.
For a book about reading, and writing, and arithmetic, and philosophy, and stories of greatness.
A book that helps all people, flourish in their own directions.
In their own sequence, at their own pace.
Towards whatever unique greatness, calls to them.
We must grow, we must search for wisdom and aim towards greatness.
We are not servants, or workers, or over-workers, we are not stained by poverty.
We are the inventors, the creators, of all the world’s cultures.
And every human being is capable of, beauty, wisdom, and greatness.
We must prevent young minds, from fracturing due to poverty.
And instead, help them, to upgraded their views.
So that the future is safe from, from all the mistakes that we know we are making today.
Humanity can only find peace, and begin advancing at a pace worthy of it.
When our poems help the little ones, meaningfully begin where we leave off.
Please, becomes great being, and save your progress in books and poems.
So that others are spared, repeating mistakes, that belong in the past.
Expand your knowledge, expand your wisdom, expand your culture, enlarge the world.