Insipid is the lust for sameness; we'll rout that demon yet.
This and other revelations are coming to the theatre near you.
Our fabric is collective, not singular. Our behavior as a group does more to us than our behavior as an individual. As an individual I may make any choice in my realm of probability - or, in other words, how many sides does my dice contain? How many ways can my eyes delight or complain?
I make my eyes out of my physical inheritance, but what my eyes may see is inscripted by you and everyone you know, not me. Any capacity of humanity - love/hate, war/peace, liberty/slavery, actuary/philosophy, accounting/imagining, running/programming, giving/taking, using/making, creating/breaking, filling/starving, hoping/carving, struggling/waking - they're all just what you gave me, plus my part in the philosophy. You give me substance, but I give me purpose; nevertheless we're all distracted by what's written on Jerzies. Because, if I choose what's cross to your purpose, then you'll inflict what you will to what's yours of my substance. We try to sign contracts to counter this nature, but only ever will instincts be templates of purpose.
Even the sun is given ripe room to breath as its course may merry along its own borders. The moon is blessed with the spiral it has even though its work crosses many many paths. Humans meanwhile are animals of possibility, where our courses create their own brand of nobility and life is sensibility crossed with simplicity.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment