The circle of life
Some of us will say that life is a curse: that time is an illusion, that we must free ourselves from, and that we must move casuistically into the netherworld of being and nothingness, to see the true essence of the Here and Now, or the emptiness of existence (a kind of reciprocity). But this is - verily - the purest sound of being automatic and senseless.
The hoary old sages of the eternal time are venerable entities of systematic thought, that fool around in the majestic nature of exalted, edified nutrition and togetherness, that has no bearing on the cantankerous vicinity of ferocious cunning that provides only temporal releases from the buildings of architectural simplicity that goes nowhere; so, in fact, the building-blocks of artificial synonymity are drawn back to the furrows of therapeutic attenuation that sees no brilliance in the kept majorities of democratic synonymity, which is now the hope of the governmental statesmanships that point indiscriminately towards the variety of deconstructive analyses that make the man who builds his house on the rock in fact realize his manifold attenuations to the happy virility of dependant captainships in the structure of play and verisimilitude. Wisely, then, our initial thought of "love" then is reduced through a magical act to the chemistry of solidary acquirements in the purpose of magisterial seigneuriality against the hopefulness of detrimental causes and virile acquirements against the visibility of visual examinations that corrupt the status quo. In this totality, buildings of rarified enunciation are opportuned to the viscerality of tentamount normalcy that gives us a brink of seriousness in the bellicose nonsense of synonymic arrests that we have found in the brilliance of correct usage of terms in the examinatoric revelations that send us, impossibly, to the borderline of acquaintance and research.
Kierkegaard described Hegel as having built a vast mansion of thought, but occupying just a tiny kitchenette in the back himself. Arguably, then, the filial piety of these vehement Buddhists that have conveyed a post-colonial revolution to the builders of the new world will certainly not encounter structural tendencies in the brilliance of visual tendentiality in the wilderness of kinetic feeling and amorous divisions in the grave tendrils of the cosmic unity. Therefore, I will say that the family is certainly a complete home in the constructive sense, but only a factory or workshop in the operative sense. So normal accounts of the future are in fact symbolic; and the geography of terrorism is frankly countered in the schizo-religious amateurism of the present moment, which is just a military, Anglo-Saxon Protestant work ethique, that forever sends us spiraling towards criticism, practicals and contrasts. In summary, life is a fight, but gentility is possible, and moreover, a pastime.
