Edvard Munch
Bluelighter
These are some of my notes from my black-journal. From the spirit of Albert Camus, I've read that idiots write with ambiguity and questionable connections, and even bigger idiots write with sober intentions.
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Life, I've found, is not lived for grand moments of eventful greatness, but rather small moments of personal relationships. And if such a statement is true, how much am I living life for the stability in human contact as opposed to the wild dice of savage hurt of comfortable euphoria? Day to day moments of interacting with the pool of human chance, unendedlky diverse in elements which produce the greatest fear; the inability to handle an action with an appropriate reaction. To live for small moments is to live tirelessly through this wicked world finding jolts in life in small quantities of speech with strangers. Lonely minded perspective, I know, but I've nothing else in my mammalian sector as intellect, more and more, leaves me feeling dead inside.
To degrade the human species of relating to the meat makes the burden of Virtue and vanity easier if we are maggots, now free to treat life in loft contempt. And so, the concepts we choose to instill in our being must be of the same spirituality; an essence to survive in the world, whether of religious or mathematical basis, the idea merely works towards the organisms survival, but also a reciprical as in need to understand such concept one must've lived as the concept as the entire universe unto one's self.
On irresponsibility: What is irresponsibility but he refusal of acknowledging the self unto external contexts? Complete disregard for all actions or thoughts not held to the higher standards of the laws of causality. Perhaps, if one has reached this point through such intentional aloofness may one give birth to him or her self every day; a new self, wrecklessly intending and brilliantly maddening.
On the addict (and more appropriately, the homeostatic balance of the addict): The addicts brilliance is just that. An untouchable spectrum of raw inpiration and survival. By no means does the addict consider the aesthetics of his life; the redeeming qualities of art and form, but rather the digestion of all things beutiful to slip down the esophogus and reach the stomach to pour into the blood stream. The addict knows art and form of that intial awakening point of the flush of euphoria and to lose his sense of meaning and worth becomes a meaningless consequence of the push and pull of tidal struggles. One cannot take form without imposing dysphoria and empty hatred. When the organism suspects a rush, a force of comfort and brilliance, the body atunes and readjusts to appropriate for the ingestion; to prepapre metabolic enzymes and that is the beast and neccessity of nature and it's laughing sick joke upon man. To dull the senses and soon dull the individuals empiricists fascist power of their ego and will to exert spiritual force for the priceof the world's meaning coming alive again ... this is the stupidity of nature on man and the brilliance of nature upon its self and will for homeostatic flux; never giving away, never taking back. And so I say unto the addict!, my people and brood bretheran of the Earth, the drunken pirates and the "free-spirited" hippie adventurous ... be merry. Stay merry for as long as you can and hope this circulatory meat reasoning suits you well lest you fall into mediocrity, soberness, and abandon yoursoul.
On the writer: ... To write drunk. Even stupidly I condone! There is no difference between the master who has mastered through extraneous logic and the tangeted neurosis of the mind. We apply secondary facets of intellect, yes, and in doing so it shall help greatly in the goal of readable pursuit, but to lie dead in atrophy ... invisible ink spurts and you're left with your face against a mirror ready to explain your idiocy, and to explain the sudden moment you lock-up; that is precisely the concept that took you there. That is the soberness of the mind.
More on the writer: I want to be a writer, but not for my self. No one writes with passion for it to be read by none. The Virtue lies in the vanity of it's expressions, it's points and pronunciations. The writer, as I shall include my self here, writes for connections that have been cut-off from him self to his peers and public to reach the deeper understanding; the pieces of you that are the pieces of me. Untranslatable to speech; for speech is the poorest excuse for communication in it's rapidity and unnerving will of point A to point B with all exlusions to the roads less taken. Let writing take hold,and slowly, with hard persistance and passion we can turn our writing to speech and this is where geniouses and sloaths seperate.
Even more on the writer: As in writing, personal flavor is always discriminate and nothing is more pervasive then either the acceptance or the rejection to the writers molecule; like a concious action potential the reader is.
Intellectual romance is among a number of the spirits have been bound to the crust for to long. Run lofty, spread seeds, and please know I will never let you rocketing intellectual spirit ever land on me.
Clear liquid. This is the quite insanity in which you live.
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I encourage you all to keep a journal to jot down thoughts!
I couldn't believe how much it has helped me express my self.
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Life, I've found, is not lived for grand moments of eventful greatness, but rather small moments of personal relationships. And if such a statement is true, how much am I living life for the stability in human contact as opposed to the wild dice of savage hurt of comfortable euphoria? Day to day moments of interacting with the pool of human chance, unendedlky diverse in elements which produce the greatest fear; the inability to handle an action with an appropriate reaction. To live for small moments is to live tirelessly through this wicked world finding jolts in life in small quantities of speech with strangers. Lonely minded perspective, I know, but I've nothing else in my mammalian sector as intellect, more and more, leaves me feeling dead inside.
To degrade the human species of relating to the meat makes the burden of Virtue and vanity easier if we are maggots, now free to treat life in loft contempt. And so, the concepts we choose to instill in our being must be of the same spirituality; an essence to survive in the world, whether of religious or mathematical basis, the idea merely works towards the organisms survival, but also a reciprical as in need to understand such concept one must've lived as the concept as the entire universe unto one's self.
On irresponsibility: What is irresponsibility but he refusal of acknowledging the self unto external contexts? Complete disregard for all actions or thoughts not held to the higher standards of the laws of causality. Perhaps, if one has reached this point through such intentional aloofness may one give birth to him or her self every day; a new self, wrecklessly intending and brilliantly maddening.
On the addict (and more appropriately, the homeostatic balance of the addict): The addicts brilliance is just that. An untouchable spectrum of raw inpiration and survival. By no means does the addict consider the aesthetics of his life; the redeeming qualities of art and form, but rather the digestion of all things beutiful to slip down the esophogus and reach the stomach to pour into the blood stream. The addict knows art and form of that intial awakening point of the flush of euphoria and to lose his sense of meaning and worth becomes a meaningless consequence of the push and pull of tidal struggles. One cannot take form without imposing dysphoria and empty hatred. When the organism suspects a rush, a force of comfort and brilliance, the body atunes and readjusts to appropriate for the ingestion; to prepapre metabolic enzymes and that is the beast and neccessity of nature and it's laughing sick joke upon man. To dull the senses and soon dull the individuals empiricists fascist power of their ego and will to exert spiritual force for the priceof the world's meaning coming alive again ... this is the stupidity of nature on man and the brilliance of nature upon its self and will for homeostatic flux; never giving away, never taking back. And so I say unto the addict!, my people and brood bretheran of the Earth, the drunken pirates and the "free-spirited" hippie adventurous ... be merry. Stay merry for as long as you can and hope this circulatory meat reasoning suits you well lest you fall into mediocrity, soberness, and abandon yoursoul.
On the writer: ... To write drunk. Even stupidly I condone! There is no difference between the master who has mastered through extraneous logic and the tangeted neurosis of the mind. We apply secondary facets of intellect, yes, and in doing so it shall help greatly in the goal of readable pursuit, but to lie dead in atrophy ... invisible ink spurts and you're left with your face against a mirror ready to explain your idiocy, and to explain the sudden moment you lock-up; that is precisely the concept that took you there. That is the soberness of the mind.
More on the writer: I want to be a writer, but not for my self. No one writes with passion for it to be read by none. The Virtue lies in the vanity of it's expressions, it's points and pronunciations. The writer, as I shall include my self here, writes for connections that have been cut-off from him self to his peers and public to reach the deeper understanding; the pieces of you that are the pieces of me. Untranslatable to speech; for speech is the poorest excuse for communication in it's rapidity and unnerving will of point A to point B with all exlusions to the roads less taken. Let writing take hold,and slowly, with hard persistance and passion we can turn our writing to speech and this is where geniouses and sloaths seperate.
Even more on the writer: As in writing, personal flavor is always discriminate and nothing is more pervasive then either the acceptance or the rejection to the writers molecule; like a concious action potential the reader is.
Intellectual romance is among a number of the spirits have been bound to the crust for to long. Run lofty, spread seeds, and please know I will never let you rocketing intellectual spirit ever land on me.
Clear liquid. This is the quite insanity in which you live.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I encourage you all to keep a journal to jot down thoughts!
I couldn't believe how much it has helped me express my self.
I believe Why I Am So Clever is one of the chapter titles from Ecce Homo...