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Musings that fluctuate between pragmatism and abstraction.


— somber ink —
[H]e who is hated by the people, as the wolf by the dogs - is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods.

— Friedrich Nietzsche

Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.

— Carl Jung

The New Kingdom

Homo insipiens is thy name,

and this earth is thy residence.

Thine enemy is reason,

and thine ally is community.

Thou shalt procreate wildly

and uncontrollably

until homo sapiens

and the Übermensch

are no more.

On Weltschmerz and other d(a)emons.

This post deals with personal experience and subjective thought, although it revolves around philosophical musings and life in general. I figured this is fair warning since the readers of this blog will have noticed it is not personal in nature.

The hopeless idealist and the philosopher are tormented by exactly the same set of questions. The only difference is that the latter has managed to establish some sort of pragmatic detachment from the emotional turmoil that these questions cause, through the use of reason and -more often than not- the publishing of articles and books.

The older I grow, the more I move towards the philosophical end of the spectrum. I become increasingly apathetic, which I don’t think is necessarily a bad thing. By allowing myself to be emotionally detached from life’s disappointments and imperfections, I am able to maintain better psychological health. The problem is that I keep falling back to the root of it all, the big “why”, and that’s where the particulars of philosophy come into play.

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Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.

— Carl Sagan

We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.

— Charles Bukowski