A PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY - READING POETRY
This one is a quick one. What is the philosopher’s purpose? How do we move within society and does the philosopher have any opinion. It’s not a question of if we are allowed them. It’s do we share our own biases with those around us. I observe, and listen a lot. Measuring out a multitude of rhyme and reason amongst the world’s inhabitants. Those of whom observe, receive tidings of storytelling. My mind contains the stories from many an individual and they’re not all ‘good’, wholesome or righteous in a typical sense. Some are littered with guilt, crime and personal betrayal, and others are of hope, or the hope which is to pass, which can only ever be beautiful. It takes a wrecking to create a new thing in place where living beings shed their skin.
As a philosopher, I can say, almost in every moment I’ve seen in another and life lived, the present feels ever lasting. Almost as though you could live on in this moment forever without ever knowing if tomorrow will feel any different. And those with heartbreak, hope or guilt feel the weight of the moment. Often reliving a past, making sense of the matter, all to find reason. Make things better and right. Or reliving as a means to not let go, of the event, the moment, the souls, the what could have been. Dressing up the moment in roses, much like a coffin of a man whom covered in riches, still possesses secrets.
Beings have killed in the moment, due to passion, and need for a forced change. Maybe if you throw in some action, the world will be yours, and you will be vindicated. We rarely feel the butterfly effect when there’s fire in every room and smoke clouds the eyes. When the sutt settles into the cracks caused by this human hurricane, do you then own up to the crime or do you say, the stars didn’t align, the planet was in retrograde, Saturn was in my 7th, he made me do it. It was all their fault. Or, can you own up to your human disposition and humbly admit, we were over taken, I understand the cost to my life, all returns to the source and I am nothing without it.
Others have retrieved well before any event and taken score. There’s submission to the world and where she takes you. Quite possibly a kinder path to tread along. The thing which has been observed time and time again is the commonality between both paths, time and fruition. Time can pass, and souls will always meet as destined. The lesson is only learnt when the day is done and that is not always something complete at the 12 hand strike.
So with all this said and done, maybe I’m asking if philosophers are passive, or are we the storytellers of others? I for one have rarely called an apple by its name when speaking of metaphysical passions of the world. This is probably why all poetry sounds romantic, or maybe even vague. I have almost always refrained from painting an event directly or quantifying the things which measure the moment. There’s never a count on who was there, when something happened. These elements seem futile and a distraction to the story you're telling me. Especially when all I’ll take note of, is the why of life and how you plan to continue.
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TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND LEAVES
FOR THE FOREST FLOOR
A tree falls at speed
Two hundred thousand leaves
Cut into the forest ground
I make no sound
We drift quietly
We whisper secrets
And sweet nothings
Our names were etched
I ran through this forest
You were my leaves
This tree was mine
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This is not romance.