Patience

And so,
another time,
another day,
The happening
will occur.
Shall I wait?
Must.

Are the good moments, when achieved, worth the bad that occupies most of our striving believing only in the good's potentiality?

We live for those few great moments scattered randomly amidst the clutter of depression in hope to be found and desperation that they are lost.

You can make them: the seeds are there wanting to be planted, fertilized, taken care of, fostered into buds.

And the harder you try, the longer you have to wait, the more rewarding the results are.

Play - Lyrics to a taken girl

by tempting me
I believe its over
but it isn't
or it might nearly be
and it'll surely be
but then it seems
as if it'll never be.
It's hard to show
sincere care for him,
when I feel this way,
but I do for you,
and I know you know,
and at times I feel
you feel the same,
but you can't, decide,
or you have and its not me.
But you need him here
or you might be tempted.
It'd be almost perfect
I won't bleed my tears
its not sex
only companionship
and I'll wait, comparing
all to you
everyone failing
wish you'd do the same
and find me as the one
with whom you're meant to be
Perhaps I like to hope,
maybe dream, but never pray,
It just may happen one day, one day.

Perhaps

Is it worth thinking about perhaps?
Perhaps.

Perhaps everything we think is a perhaps.
Perhaps I am.
Perhaps I cannot jump through walls?
Perhaps There is meaning.
Perhaps White is white.
Perhaps we live.
Perhaps thought is?

The last one is difficult to say perhaps to for it is a necessary and absolute truth for to deny it would be to deny that you're denying, a practical contradiction; but if you don't believe in the principle of non-contradiction as a qualifier for truth it is simple to say thought isn't. Or would we have to say that both thought is and isn't or neither of the two?

Nights

spent yearning to write
having to entertain
Ages
spent desiring company
Now needing solitude
Thinking itself
is an abstract term
needed to describe
something we cannot
truly put a name to:
Nominalism, suggesting
a doubt of Reality,
the expression of
the groundless ground
in terms of language:
by separating the term
from its referent
a doubt is implied as to
the basis of the referent:
if justice is not justice
the principle of non-
contradiction is violated
due to the belief that goes
side by side: it has no basis
in Reality. But reality
cannot be reality either,
only an illusion based upon
the groundless ground.

There was another topic I wanted to write about that I just forgot but I have instead decided to labor away at creating an aesthetically pleasing floral decoration, although I would like to attain to a level of sarcasm in metaphor, it will take several years for my confidence on this matter to grow, but I can try, no more, no less:

I am not me
cliches are not cliches

a lie to insinuate the truth as the opposite of what has been said/understood/meant -
that could never be it so long as the internet never shuts off


Sarcasm truly exemplifies my belief that knowledge can only be about what something isn't, showing what something truly is by a process of elimination; or else we can know How something came to be: but is this because what something is is different now to now as it is constantly becoming? Or is it because we cannot specify the essential definitive properties of the something for they turn out to be merely appearances of more fundamental essences?

Why was I not sooner to say that both must be correct: that we can and cannot have knowledge, that something must be defined by both what it is, if that can be presumed and hence assumed by having some knowledge of what it is not for if we were to know what it certainly is not we must have some idea about what it is, and by what it is not. This is accuracy.

I could continue
but it pains me to think
I am so very tired
and (un)fortunately wired
I notice each time I blink
and the sun bringing its orange hue,

I want to write something
that will be appreciated
but irony has taken over
Inspiration's moved to Dover
this question can no longer be debated
and to bed I go till the alarm clock ring

So to cover that over

I must question everything I write: why do we capitalize the I? Is this use of imperatives ever appropriate if it can never attain to truth as the declarative? Surely not everything but only somethings. Is there even an I? What is writing? This last one I can answer.

A BIGGER question to open these chronicles up to philosophical ponderings is what can be called art?
People believe that only good art can be called art and the rest rubbish trying to attain the state of art but failing achieving only the status of shit: but I believe that the appreciation of art is subjective as one person can believe a painting to be wonderful and another the same painting turd. But art to me is not the product of a skill and the effort of creation and production, although creativity and novelty, no matter what people may think of it, contribute to what people may call "good" art. What I think art is is the skill and the doing of whatever it is that is done be it me writing or smoking my pipe: there is an art of watching the sunrise, namely the way in which you watch the sunrise: art is the way you do whatever it is that you do. Does it have to be in production, or not as a means to an end, or can we have an art of consuming and making money, or doing a job to make money? The former are certainly art, but to not develop skill other than to make the task easier, to loathe what you do and only enjoy the money with a disregard for the results which, even if they would be pleasing, bring you no pleasure unless you get a raise seems to me to be difficult to call art: but if art is everything we do and the way we do it I really don't think the circumstances can matter at all: the art just becomes the way of doing what what you WANT to do, ie. making the task easier, getting a raise, etc. So you have to want to do the thing you're doing for the way you do it to be art. If it's against your will, it cannot be art: or is it entirely unconditional: the chained workers never wanted to slave away ploughing the fields by hand but doing it is still art, or am I going too far?

Perhaps you have to want to do it to develop it into an art. Or perhaps simply doing what you want to do is art. This is not to put a value upon the art for its importance, ingenuity, or agreeableness. I'm tired

The first blog should always be

an elucidation of the reasoning behind the choice of title for the blog, a justification: An, the personification of heaven in Sumerian or rather Akkadian religion/mythology was worshiped for a few millenia before his reign ended by the onset of more specialized regional gods who, I presume, gave hope to people struggling in these particular areas who would feel daunted praying to a single god who specializes in everything. Perhaps the thought of one god never entered their minds. Perhaps this first thought came when the ruler of the gods killed all the others or became so powerful that the others had no dominion over the fates of those praying: they could not trust the lesser gods to cure their problems as, they believed, they would have to ask Marduk to help them help us. I will struggle with this question for a decade, no need to kill myself attempting to defeat it here.

As the reincarnation of An:

How can a deity be a person, if it is a personification?

What do we know about heaven? All we can believe about heaven is whatever we think it is in our dreams but it may just be better than even this, better even that euphoria:

Higher than high
lift the tallest building right into the sky
Better than bliss
More perfect than the day you had your first kiss
That vision you had, in your dream
would have been bad if you were used to the euphoric gleam
radiant and effervescent, translucent and so clear
you wish it were you, you wish you were me:
An, The personification of heaven, thus all you hold dear
decadence, harmony, peace and beauty.