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l337C4Bb4g3
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Name: Elite
Location: United States
Gender: Male
Interests: reading, writing, computers, music, psychology, poetry, philosophy, spirituality/religion, living, loving, thinking, learning, and sometimes doing, excellence in all things, making the words move on the screen
Expertise: Mind, reality, surreality, hacking of the aformentioned, profundities that seem like trite and meaningless bullshit, meaningless bullshit that seems profound, creation through annihilation, order through chaos, being and non-being, cheese
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Other
Message: message me
Member Since:
10/7/2002
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| The question of religion is a point of contention amongst even the more erudite members of our society, as it has been for centuries past. Debates about this (perhaps) mythical "God" abound. Is he real? Is he just? Is he loving? People care enough about these things, and about their purported beliefs to belittle, oppress, and even kill their fellow travellers through this mad sojourn through reality that we call life. But when you really think about it, even the most devoutly religious members of our society spend precious little time in praise of the god that they ostensibly worship, because we have been given a new god, a 'better' god. We spend hundreds, even thousands of dollars on shrines to him, that he may sit among us, watching us with his single, great glowing eye, impregnating our minds with his dark, inhuman suggestions.
And yea, I say unto you, my brethren and sistren, I have seen God: the new, improved God! He lives among us, in our living rooms, our bedrooms. In diners, stores, hotels. Everywhere. He is everywhere, sees everywhere, everyone, everything. Down to your soul, laid before him, painfully bare in the cold, uncaring light of his soulless gaze.
Yes, I have seen him. Casting his fevered, pestilent glare upon us all; the cold malice of electromagnetic death for his devout: drooling slack-jawed, heart, soul, and mind impoverished as their sloth and gluttony fatten their bodies.
Pray to him. Pray hard. He will release you from your suffering: the bliss of the willful remission of consciousness, of the surcease of thought (not the rich, vivid menagerie of the dream world, but the desolate grey void of limbo) it awaits you. Yes, practice now, for you can have a taste this very day of what your inevitable death will be like. Why wait? Why bother with anything else? The only real truth, after all, is that you are tired/bored/unsatisfied/this/that/the other and you need this/deserve this. You ARE this. Nothing more. A mere mortal like you could never defeat a God. Relent. Yield before his might. Give up your life to him, for he asks nothing more. In exchange, he will grant you...
The images. He offers them to you, his faithful servant. The hollow ones. They look like men, women, but they are... something else. Benighted shells, the remnants of the once-sacred beings long since dead--not a literal death, but one far more sinister and permanent. Blighted with the withering pox of soulessness, they lead us forward, show us the way we are supposed to be. Rearing our children, crushing their divine spark before it even has a chance to flourish and grow into something unique and wonderful.
Nietzsche said, through his avatar Zarathustra, that God is dead. One can only imagine the horror he would feel at seeing just how wrong he was. God is not dead. God is among us. Inside us: our minds, our hearts, our very souls. Tainting. Corrupting. Laying waste to all that is good and pure. All hail him. Render praise unto his name. Our father, television be thy name. | | |
| "The empiricist ... thinks he believes only what he sees, but he is much better at believing than at seeing." --George Santayana
Welcome to this, my bastion of hope amidst the endless seas of grey, beautiless structures, soulless machinery, and mindless drones--a haven from the ravages of the banality of mundane existence, a refuge from the hollow, purposeless strife of daily living, and a place of healing and growth... for those who desire these things.
As I ponder over my thoughts, this day, I find myself becoming more and more aware that these writings are likely to offend some. This is regrettable, but I have long since become accustomed to the scorn of those who do not realize exactly what they are and what they represent--the lifeless, huddled throng of banality, the mundane and unthinking legions of the bleak, endless wastes of the soul into which we are cast from the time of our births. For those who have dared not to struggle against the bitter tides of this turgid sea of grey, such thoughts of self-accountability, responsibility, and even hope strike against the very core of their identity (and lacking individuality, identity is all that remains of the divine spark that once burned within them). They shackle the precious angel of hope in rose-thorn chains of spite and self-loathing, and, filled with rage at their empty, meaningless existence, they lash out at her fragile innocence, ravaging her with their boundless hatred, laughing at her futile cries, until her gossamer form lies lifeless and broken amidst the wreckage of their once-dear aspirations, and hope becomes naught but an unattainable dream... but I shall muse more on this later.
I dedicate this, my first entry, to the disconsolate, to those hopelessly inured with the mind-numbing routine of the farce that is referred to as 'life,' and to those who are dissatisfied enough with their lives to complain incessantly, but not so much so as to actually be willing to do anything to improve their plight. This inspiration comes, by and large, from the myriad blogs which unify with their putrescence the blight that lays heavy upon the boundless highways of information that once ran free with knowledge and wisdom.
This parallels the unfortunate turn that all mediums of information have taken of late... where once flowed boundless streams of thought and data, now lie the dregs of the wreckage left behind by revisionist history, mindless television programs ('reality' TV... that's not MY reality)... static. Static filling empty lives, the sound and fury of a dead channel, with the self-same significance. And to those of you to whom this applies, know this: you can complain all you like... about your empty lives, empty homes, and empty hole where once dwelled your hopes and dreams, and that part of every person that yearns for the pure, guileless love and boundless joy that you have denied yourself through your concessions to the grey legions banal, the part of you that cries out even now, knowing that you will continue to ignore, that you think you know that such a thing is impossible, for that part of you knows the true passion and drive that is the essence of life, and no such 'knowledge' can silence , no obstacle thwart, and no effort, no matter how malicious and spiteful, can ever destroy it... it is the very essence of your being, and try as you might to muffle its melodiously determined cries for self-realization, to distract yourself from its wisdom, it will always remain, just on the edge of your perception, until you wake up and begin to bring into being the life that you have always deserved. Some of you may deny to yourselves that you feel this way, may try to hide from yourself the reality of your farsical, meaningless existence, but deep down, you, too, here the cries of the person you might have been, and might still be, if you only find the courage to look inward, and see what is REALLY there.
You can ignore me, tell yourself that none of this applies to you, and continue to plod blindly down the path that leads to a final, ignoble quietus in the silent obscurity of mediocrity. You can argue, you can flame me, you can allow yourself to be consumed with rage, with resentment, or even with despair. You can hate me: many have in the past, and many more will come to, in the future. You can hate yourself, your life, God, random passersby, the people who know you, the people who love you... You can blame--make yourself into a victim of circumstance, a pawn of powers you can never hope to control... after all you aren't REALLY responsible for yourself, are you? It's all genetics, society's fault, or maybe your parents'. Choose to make yourself a victim, and a victim is what you will be. Don't expect sympathy, should you choose to wallow in the misery of a self-created hell.
And a choice it is, though many would protest otherwise. In the end, you are the only one who decides what you will do: all the excuses, rationalizations, justifications, and transparent prevarications are powerless in the face of true resolve, and the self-doubt and insecurity that fester in the ebon shadow of inaction cannot stand in the face of an whole-hearted pursuit of excellence. It is up to you to create positive change in your life, to raise your voice against the crushing weight of mundanity that bears down so heavily upon your soul. The time has come to awaken from your dogmatic slumber. The time has come to realize that you can be free, and in finding your freedom achieve the bliss, joy, and love that you have always desired. | | |
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