Be a conscientious hedonist.
Be an open-minded nihilist.
Be an optimistic cynic.
Be a tolerant misanthrope.
Be selfish. Be selfless. Be selfish.
****************
Anymore, I find it difficult to manifest a thought longer than 160 characters.****************
Last night I had a dream and in it there was an old man with a long beard. He resembled what I used to think God probably looked like. He told me to not leave my cell phone plugged in and beside my bed over night. He told me it was sending barely audible noises that were disrupting my brain, fucking with me in my sleep. 'You have an internal alarm clock,' he said, 'use it.' I don't know if I should take that dream seriously or not.****************
It's becoming increasingly harder to dispute the evidence pointing towards a Dutch-centered universe. As much as I love and respect all of you as wonderfully unique individuals capable of shaping life in any way you wish, I also believe you all to be nothing more than extremely well-developed manifestations of my own consciousness; nothing more than tributaries branching from a river. Yet, that river leads somewhere. Perhaps we're all part of this giant, cosmic ocean of thought and some bodies of water are larger than others. More on that stuff later. . . .****************
In my dreams I am nothing
Bare existence, no longer anchored
To this vain search for a meaningful conclusion
No longer burdened with these biological restrictions
Free to just revel in my insignificance
****************Bare existence, no longer anchored
To this vain search for a meaningful conclusion
No longer burdened with these biological restrictions
Free to just revel in my insignificance
Passage of the day.
From Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over. He would finish that poem presently. He could finish it whenever he chose. It was queer, how the mere prospect of going to a literary tea-party bucked him up. When your income is two quid a week you at least aren't jaded by too much human contact. Even to see the inside of somebody else's house is a kind of treat. A padded armchair under your bum, and tea and cigarettes and the smell of women - you learn to appreciate such things when you are starved of them. In practice, though, Doring's parties never in the least resembled what Gordon looked forward to. These wonderful, witty, erudite conversations that he imagined beforehand - they never happened or began to happen. Indeed there was never anything that could be properly called conversation at all; only the stupid clacking that goes on at parties everywhere, in Hampstead or Hong Kong. No one really worth meeting ever came to Doring's parties. Doring was such a very mangy lion himself that his followers were hardly even worthy to be called jackals. Quite half of them were those hen-witted middle-aged women who have lately escaped from good Christian homes and are trying to be literary. The star exhibits were troops of bright young things who dropped in for half an hour, formed circles of their own and talked sniggeringly about other bright young things to whom they referred by nicknames. For the most part Gordon found himself hanging about on the edges of conversations. Doring was kind in a slapdash way and introduced him to everybody as "Gordon Comstock - you know; the poet. He wrote that dashed clever book about poems called Mice. You know." But Gordon had never yet encountered anybody who did know. The bright young things summed him up at a glance and ignored him. He was thirtyish, moth-eaten and obviously penniless. And yet, in spite of the invariable disappointment, how eagerly he looked forward to those literary tea-parties! They were a break in his loneliness, anyway. That is the devilish thing about poverty, the ever-recurrent thing - loneliness. Day after day with never an intelligent person to talk to; night after night back to your godless room, always alone. Perhaps it sounds rather fun if you are rich and sought-after; but how different it is when you do it from necessity!
From Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over. He would finish that poem presently. He could finish it whenever he chose. It was queer, how the mere prospect of going to a literary tea-party bucked him up. When your income is two quid a week you at least aren't jaded by too much human contact. Even to see the inside of somebody else's house is a kind of treat. A padded armchair under your bum, and tea and cigarettes and the smell of women - you learn to appreciate such things when you are starved of them. In practice, though, Doring's parties never in the least resembled what Gordon looked forward to. These wonderful, witty, erudite conversations that he imagined beforehand - they never happened or began to happen. Indeed there was never anything that could be properly called conversation at all; only the stupid clacking that goes on at parties everywhere, in Hampstead or Hong Kong. No one really worth meeting ever came to Doring's parties. Doring was such a very mangy lion himself that his followers were hardly even worthy to be called jackals. Quite half of them were those hen-witted middle-aged women who have lately escaped from good Christian homes and are trying to be literary. The star exhibits were troops of bright young things who dropped in for half an hour, formed circles of their own and talked sniggeringly about other bright young things to whom they referred by nicknames. For the most part Gordon found himself hanging about on the edges of conversations. Doring was kind in a slapdash way and introduced him to everybody as "Gordon Comstock - you know; the poet. He wrote that dashed clever book about poems called Mice. You know." But Gordon had never yet encountered anybody who did know. The bright young things summed him up at a glance and ignored him. He was thirtyish, moth-eaten and obviously penniless. And yet, in spite of the invariable disappointment, how eagerly he looked forward to those literary tea-parties! They were a break in his loneliness, anyway. That is the devilish thing about poverty, the ever-recurrent thing - loneliness. Day after day with never an intelligent person to talk to; night after night back to your godless room, always alone. Perhaps it sounds rather fun if you are rich and sought-after; but how different it is when you do it from necessity!
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