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Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Flashback

Iridescent wordless symbols,
When meant to find my way,
It seems that what it seems is not,
And sent to find me, in display,
Is my past self, warning me of what?
Should I not be warning him?
It seems he misunderstands this world;
His mental outer-rim.

For the past me which I stand,
Eye to eye, we meet,
His eyes seem of less blue then I,
And much less damaged, be his feet.

He tells me to kill bad men.
Is as justified a cause,
If wrongdoing can be proven right,
He deserves death for his flaws,
Yet I stand defiant in new words,
And tell him times have changed;
From he to me, it seems so wrong,
Our views have been exchanged.

He tells me he is happy with her,
I say that they won't last,
As I move on to brighter days,
He is trapped there, in the past,
To wish and wish on my behalf,
For things to all work out;
He believes now from our meeting,
That my present is his flawed route,
And as such he puts foot to ground;
He dreams the status quo,
Will never ever ever leave,
"Oh please," he begs, "don't go."

His head lays deep in words and thought;
To him, his God is real,
Yet deeper questions permeate,
What he swore he'd always feel;
In his state of deep confusion,
He turns to me and asks,
"Is this Lord of ours, still ours?
Or are we split on this, in half?"
I look to him, and sag my head,
"To me?" I double check,
"To me, my friend, yes it would seem,
This Lord of ours is dead."

In arbitrary confusion,
Mixed in with a scent of awe,
My past self turns and paces back and forth;
These new thoughts seem so raw.

Finally, he turns to me,
And looks me in the eyes,
And asks me,
"This girl I'm with, it seems so right,"
I have no heart to say she dies.
All I do is smile at him,
And say "Just let it float,
But remember that at some point,
That you'll need to let it go."

Eyes narrowed in suspicious depth,
He says that he must go.
It seems that both our dreams are over;
It's time to wake up; let life flow,
For both of us, we met as one,
Somewhere in-between,
Our split-dimensions, and I hope,
We'll meet again, and see,
How different things may still become,
In our future, plastered black;
For now I'll stay here, unaware,
And walk, blind, life's race-track.

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The world is meaningless,

there is no God or gods, there are no morals, the universe is not moving inexorably towards any higher purpose.
All meaning is man-made, so make your own, and make it well.
Do not treat life as a way to pass the time until you die.
Do not try to "find yourself", you must make yourself.
Choose what you want to find meaningful and live, create, love, hate, cry, destroy, fight and die for it.
Do not let your life and your values and your actions slip easily into any mold, other that that which you create for yourself, and say with conviction, "This is who I make myself".
Do not give in to hope.
Remember that nothing you do has any significance beyond that with which you imbue it.
Whatever you do, do it for its own sake.
When the universe looks on with indifference, laugh, and shout back, "Fuck You!".
Rembember that to fight meaninglessness is futile, but fight anyway, in spite of and because of its futility.
The world may be empty of meaning, but it is a blank canvas on which to paint meanings of your own.
Live deliberately. You are free.