D͓͊̐ͥ̓ͤ̕Ã̖͈͍̥̉̀R̭̠͕̜̝̒̋̈́ͤ̀K̨̮͔̟̝͊͑̀̃́͝ ̧̨̠̲ͤ̃ͬ͝M̢̛̱ͧ̓̄ͣͧ̉ͧ͆͟O̢͍͔̘̤̠̲͚̺͌̋ͥ̍̚͝M̷̖͉̖̖ͥͬ́̔ͯ͟Ë́̌͏̟̪͓̟̯N̖̳̈́̉̚͢͢T̸̺̺͚͔͈̝̿͆S̑̚҉̡̫̻̭̠͕ͅ.̷̹̜̯̺̉ͯ̾̐̈́̑͒ͥ͂

Ỉ̢̛̱̣̼͖̩͉̳̱̤̞͔͈̮͈ͮ̽͋̌ͫͮ̍͒ͣ̔̀ ̸̡̧̠̱͓͇͍͂ͮ͋ͥ̒̾͑͐̔ͩͣ̃ͤ̈́ͣͯ̾̏͠ċ̋ͪ̄ͧ̇̍ͤ̉̐ͤͫ̌͟͏̦͎̦r̶̦̺͍̗̮͎̩̮̱̫̼̺̘̪̪̞̣͎͆̅ͨͨ͛͌̌̕͟͞ͅỵ̛̰͉̥͇̥͔͙̞͖̓ͭ̿ͬ̓̍̿̇̐̍͘͝ ̡̬̟͙̲̘̥͓̹̪̲͙̞̬͓́̔̈̈́͗̓̽̿͆̅ͭ̂̎͂͛ͧ̕b̵͇̰̞͉̝̬̹ͬ̊̔ͮ̒̔̄͆̀ͅe̢̦̺̤̤̹͈͓̱̙̭͇̞̤ͣ̍͐͊̊̋ͪ̈́͂̋́́̚͢ͅc̶̘̜̻̬̭̞͑͋̍ͫ͌ͨͪ̄̌͘͞͞͞ͅá̷̛̪̮͍̖̣̥͈̋ͬ͆̐ͫ̀̕u̸͊̑ͩ͂̆ͣͧ͋͒̇̐͠҉̴̹͙͔̯͍͙̯͍̺͖̰͎̼s̷̛̠̟͚̰̫̻̮̱͍̦͕ͨͩ͐͂ͬ͂̊̓ͯ̋̽ͮ̀̿́̆ͬ͢͞͝e̸͔̣̭͔̞͓̲̯̪̬̯̫̮̰̻̪̲̯̽ͥ͂̽ͨ̾̐ͥ́͘ͅ ̧̥͙͙͙̳̟̦͉̻̞̪̰̞̺̮͇̑̓̾ͬ͌ͪ̓̚͘͜Ḯ̧͊͂͛̋ͪ̏̌̓ͩ̾ͯ͋̿̄̒ͫ̓̔͏̴̺̹͙̜͙̣͍͇̼̫̣̠̣̻̬ͅͅ ̶̷̨̰̭̱͋̉́͒̑̉ͧ̔̈́̐̇̅ͩͯͬ͋͑͋̄͟a͌͒ͤ̽͗̍̅̎ͣ̂ͭ͗͆ͨ͆͗̅̿̀҉̘̟͔̬͔͍̞̥̖m̡͚͍͇̯̂̅ͭ̎̈́̇̾͋̎̓̋͂̀͢͟ ̸̷͈̭̼̻̲̱̝̙̬̫̰̹̰͚͙͓̬̅͒̎ͦ͑̎̀͗̋ͫ̆ͦḩ̛̥̰̪̹̺̰̥̱͚̻̭̼̱̗̠̟̓͗̎̇͆͋̉̂ͮ̀͂̌̒͆͝͠͠a̢̜̯̝̦̰̳̘̼͍̥̬̬̞̙͕̺̦̮ͧ̓ͮ͌̉ͤ̽͌̈ͤ̒̊͌ͮͤ͛̌͐̀͟͟p͈͈̙̪̖̠̜̲̭̫̟̗̦̑̿ͨ̉̈́̐̊ͧ̿͊ͪ͘p̵̧̹̫̮̞̗̖̥̯̯ͯ̍̐̓ͬͯ͠ẏ̵͚̪͓͇̰̐̿ͫ̿ͦ͒̀ͅ.̸̦̹̙͕̮̠̞͔̝͖͈̖̻͈̼̗͚̮̦̓ͣ̈́ͫ͂̎ͥͨ́






̵̵̹͎̞͓̠͇̗͙̗̳͇̯̯͇͈̳ͦ̎ͭ̌̏ͫ̌͆͜͝Ī̡̅ͫ̍ͪ͑̓̕̕͘͏̖̭̣̝̺ ̅̆̔͒̚͏̧̟̼̰̖̳͚̳͞͡c̡͚̯̦̝͓̐̍͗́̂̎̅͗̍͊ͥͥ̚̚̕͠ŗ̻͇̪͇̝̳͇̪̜̪͚̤̪̙̟ͫ̀͒̈́̒͋̑̈̃̎́ͭ͠͡y̻̩̩͙̤͙͓̳̭̻̿͌͑ͨ̔̇̅ͩͣͣ̇̒̚͝ͅ ̨̫͎̪͖͉͚͍ͫ̿ͪ̍͌͟ͅb͂̎͌̂͊ͬͧ̈́̏ͤ͛͊̆̏͐̅̓҉̪̲̹͉̮͚̮͓̱̬͚͉̬̖͜e̡͓͎͙̬͇̙̹̖̦̭͕̜̻͙͇̟̰̽͑̽ͮ̽͛̈ͤ̌͐̒ͭ͋͂̈́͑̽̒͘c̶̰͔͎̜̼̦͇͇͉ͦ͌̔̎̑͛ͥͧ͂̑͝ͅa̅̓ͧ̋̐ͫ͂͗ͤ̾̋́̋̇̔ͫ̀̚҉̡͏͎̲̣̙͔̦̳̜̣͇͇̻̹ͅͅu̷̧̢̥̬̮̠͓̝̝̖̤͛̈ͭ̎̎̀̎̐͑̉̔̄̅̎ͮ͠s̃ͨ͋̍ͤ̇ͯ̓͊̑̇̔̋͌̊ͭ҉̹̫̙͓̣̼̱̙̣͇̩͚͖̩͟e̵̸̸̥̪̟͉̜͖͓̗̺̻͉͙̫͓̻ͧͮ͑̒̊̊̾̕͟ͅ ̶̨̨̖͎͇̻̼̹̖̤̪̠͈̤̼̦̠̅̈̋̌̅̊̋ͅͅI̧̧͎͇͔͍̮͔̘ͨ̏̎̈́͢ ̴̴̼̞͙̲͓̦̱̐̽ͮ͒͗̿̄͐ͧ̀ͮͭͮͅa̸̤̥͚̼̲̳̻̪̮̦̼͇̥ͮ̒͋̄͐͊͊ͣ͐̚͟͜ͅm͍̗̝̦̳̻̱̗͉̹̳̘͚̿̆͊̇͗͆͐́̂̽ͩ͒̅͛͋̆ͣ͑̕͠ ̶̝͖̱̫̤̪͖̰̦͉̹̞̹̘̜̙̦̦̫̓̃ͭ̅̓ͩ̌̆͠͡s̴̼͈͚̗̖̞̣͎̰̝̎̆ͬ̐ͥ̀̎̊ͦͭ̀̐̓ͨ̆̅ͅā̶̶̡̹͈͈̳̜̭̄̂ͧ̃͗ͦͬ̒ͩ͐̂̚͞ͅḑ̴̸͇̜̼̩̰̳̹̰̲̠ͯͤͬͣͭͩ͌̽͊ͬ̒̒ͤ̊̒ͥ͗̕͟.ͫ͌͆̔̐̏͐̔ͩ͠͏̵͕̲͔̦͞






̸̡̭͈͖̪͔͔̥͎͕̤̠̳̹̥̞͇͔̝̟ͫ̊͑ͨ͆̇̿̓͒̆B̸̗̻͍͇̞̬̝̬̤̥̒̅̏ͩ̏̽ͣͪ̌́ͭͯ͟͞u̻̳̯͔̖̮͈̫̞̙͇͓͚̔̌̎́͛ͫͩ̇͗ͩ̚͢͠t̶̢ͤ̈͒̆̇ͩ̎́͘͜҉̰͉͖̪͚̻͎ ̶̷̧͔͚̩̰͚͎̠̲̱̦̗̼̰̰̼̙̮̊̀̓̐̓̆́ͅǏ̸̦̤̺͈͖͑̋ͭ̉͋̇͆ͦͩͪ͑ͩ̏̕͜͞ ̸̢̛̗͔͖͎̖̝̟͓̬̪̏͆̇͋ͩ̐̄͌̒͂ͦ̿ͥ̽̌́͢ͅç̴̘̦̟̱̮̖̥̙͉̳̺̯̼̞̈́̊͊̑͂ͩ̇͐ͦ͘͝ͅͅr̯̻̪̲̘̺͕͙̲̱̤̦̩̲̻͆̋ͩͮ̎̈́̄̀͊͑̄͒̉̚͝y̸̵̦͔̱̝̜̗̬̝̤̮̩͕̓͛ͤ̍̅̆̿̋͜͠ͅ ̅̒ͤ̓͐̂ͧͥ̾ͧ̆́͏̞͕͓͇͎̠̟̼̜̮̬m̭̥̰̭̯͉͓̥̙͔͎̉̈́ͮͭ̀͜͜͞ơͩͪ̊́͂ͨ̓͐ͤ̀̍ͦ̍̍͊́҉̹̳͚̮͓͍̲̻̠̻̪̼̮s̱̩̦̯͚̝̳̥̦͈̤̺̺̺͚̻͚̉ͭͦͤ̿̄͑̆͒ͣ́͠ͅṯ̜̱̳͚̗̟̻̀ͫ̾̓͆́͢͡ ͪͬ͋̉ͨ̓̅̔̕͢͏̨͏͕̬͕̲͍͍͓ǒ̵̴̢̝̪̬͈̞̝͓̭̹͍̙̠͇̳͚̜̤̈ͣ̓̈́͊̏̿̽͠f̢͖̖̱͙̼̦̟̲͈̗̺͉͕̞͍ͩ̔͛̃̀̎̅́ ̶̡̰̞̼̟͇̜͔̜̥̹̫̖̮̈́͑̌̎͐̓̆͒aͦ͑ͪ̒͑ͪͨ̍̋͐ͮ̓̔͗͛̎̐ͬ͏̵̴̧̜̫̮̲̬̪̞̘̱̦̞̦͠ͅͅļ̵̺̩̟̝̮̟̪̣̃̐ͭ̇ͨ̄͋͊l̪̣̼̖͓̳̺͉̩̯̪͉̞͇̮ͥ́̋͗̈ͣͥͨ̍͜͝͞,̧̊̿́͌̊ͦ̈́ͨ͛ͧͤ͘͏̨͖̝͚̝̫͞ ̡̅́ͫ́ͣ̊͛͛̍͌ͦ̊ͮ̏҉̸̷͏̮̗̩̪͕̠̩͕͖͉̼̩͚̬̟̙̦ͅ





̛͖̗̩̦̰͇͎̥̤̝̮̰̮̯̦̘̃ͣͩ̅̾̄̆̓̐̆̌̈͂͘͘͜͝b̶̷̏̂̒̑͛̐́͘҉͕̫̭͚͎̦͇ͅe̸͙̘̥̭̰̼͖̻̯̟͎̰̺̙̙͔̯͚̎ͧ̓̃̀͘͟͝c̞̲̤̰̪͉̣̩͈͚̲̲͑̇̽͋ͭ̈́ͦ͜͟͡a̵̵̱̳͈̳͕̼ͤ͊̀̓̒̅͒ͫ̇͑̊̀̀͜u͔̜͍̯̮̖̱̻̰̒̓̋̾ͨ͊̇ͯ͂ͨ̀̒ͫ̽̀͝s̵̷͖̟͕̹̹̻͖̘̜͖̗̫̒ͫ́̓̄͐͆̆ͫ́̕͠ē̡͓̝̫̦͇̱ͯ̃̾͛ͤ̍̿͂͜͢ ̷ͧ̈́ͣͧͩ̒̓̒̄̐̑̉͋̀ͪ́̔̚҉̪͕̞̤̙͔͙̠͖̫I̲̱̻͔̬̩̣̦̾͌̔͊̔ͥ̓̋̓ͩ̋̑͊̓́͡ ̀ͩ̂̀͞͏̨̫̰̻͕̰̜̖̭̘̻̰̤̩̫̼̲ͅaͫ̽ͯͣ̎̋͐̾҉̷̶̡͍̺͓̣̘͓̝̬̮̹͇͙̙̭m̴̵̰͍̥͚̮̮̦̻̮̤̥͙̈̈ͨͣ̑̐̐͐̋ͧ̅͆͋̾͆ͩ́͘͠ͅͅ ̡̣̮͎̤̝̗̤̯̻ͤ͋ͪͣͬͥ͑͗̐̒̕̕͟b̨̮̯͓̻͓̤̙̳̄̍ͬ͐ͩ̅̈̈́͠rͧ̃͊̿̈̑ͣ̂̂̿̋͆̏̄͑̚҉̸̧̙̯̰̳̙̻̳̤̠͚̯́ͅo̢̠̩̝̥̠̝̭̲̹͈ͩ̒̌̓̅͗͌̋ͧ͠ķ̶̥͎̺͈̗͈͕̙̘͔̗̜͉̥̮̺̤̫ͤ̐̿ͩͯ͐̇̔̿̅ͫ̎ͧ́͜͝ͅḙ̶̠̼͖͓̬̻̺̮̩͖̟̺͖̬͚ͩ͐̍ͫ̀ͫ̉̿̌ͥͧ͑̾̚͡͞͠ͅn̶̢͕̟̳̠̠̼̫͓̖͉̰͔͙ͪ̃ͥ̔̒̉̎͛ͬ̀̇͐ͮ̀.̸̶̙̞͇͈̯̙̞̀̀ͫ̏̈́̋̔̀ͣ̓̃ͬ̒̄̀͝





́ͪ̃͒ͬ͛͊͏̫͍̲̝̘̕̕͡ͅI̤͇̼̣̥̘̪̜͖͙̳͐ͪ͌̓ͦ̒͋̐̈͒̑͗ͫ̚̚̕͜ ̶̢̢͚̭̖̰̫̩̼͚͈̠̽ͦ̿̃͗̾͛̃̿̕a͂ͨͭ̃̔ͧͣ̌̉ͩ͗̄̍͏҉͖̗͕̠̣͔͝m̵̪̬̗̭͊͛͂̉͐͢ ̵̱͙̖̫̑̉̉̀͂̓̓͂ͬ̈h̏͂̉ͤ̿͗̑͂̆ͦ͐̒ͧͣ̂ͬ͑̚̚͞҉̶̰̜̭̟̮̺͉̱͓̠͔̯͙͚̖͓͍̖͠u̶͈̠̟͎̘̘͖͚͚̤̬̘͎ͭͮͨ̋̌ͬ̃̔̌ͣͭ̄́̚͟͠͝ͅr͒̒ͣ͋̓̾͑̋̉̑͐͏̜̻̫̤̻͓́͘͝ͅt̸̢̡̝̥͖̹͕͚̘̗͈̅̅̈̄̿ͤ́͡.̵̡̲̘͚̦͓̬̭̱͇̱̪͉̫͉̘͗ͭͨ͆̿ͤͯ̓̍̈̓͊̕ͅ





̢̜̫͇͎͇̮͚̹̩̝̻̹̒̉̐́̒ͪ̽̓ͭ͒̃ͫ̾̍͌͜͠I̡̗̰͖̟̜͉̮̝̯̺̹̬̋̊̎̒ͮ́͠͡͝ ̨̛͉̪̮̹̰̻͎̭̞̼̮̫̖̉ͯͦͩ̓̎͆ͨ͐͂͆̊ͣ̃́̕͜ͅa̡͕̗̗̰͈̫̭̲͙̜͎͈͖͕̭̳͍̓ͧ̾͋̌̋ͮ̐̎̐ͪ́͋̌̒ͤ̍͢m̧̦̺͇͓̺̹̰̙̙̳̱͊̂͛ͨͯ͐̒ͭ̐̒̉͌͐ͦ̐̚͜͠ͅ ̰͕̞̞̖̜͍̳͓ͤ̈̉͂ͨ͆ͦ̊̀́͢s̖͖̝͖̱̘̜͎̩̆ͣ̂̎̐ͮ̐͗̀͊͐̄͛̂͌ͫ̌̉́̕͡ȏ̸̱͈̺̘ͫ̽̈̑̐̑̑̀́̕͜ŕ̛͆ͣ̍ͣ̀͡͏̷̠̳̖͕͔̟̭̯̬͉͚̗͖r͑̅̋̏ͬ̍͏͝҉̡͏̫̹̗̱͉͓͈̦͍̼̰̙̯̗̪͍ỵ̡̺̤͕̘̯͍̺͖͑̋ͥ̈͢͡ͅ.̺͖̤̬̻̖̣̞̣͇̪͚̠̤̰̘̦ͧͣ̐ͣ̊̅̊̑ͦ̂̉̃̍ͩ̄ͨ́̚͡




̶̶̨͖͓̟͈̰͊ͪ̑̄͋̎̅͋̉͋ͥ̋̎͛̌ͅȈ̇̊ͦ́̾ͨͯ͊ͬͦ͆̈́ͮ͏̹̪̤̰̭̥̹̖̻͙͚̜̣̦̺̟̦͘ͅ ͋̅̉̈́̄͆̎̋̐͆̽ͭ̂̃̏͒̾͏̶̡̘̪͓͕̟͔̳̘͚̻̯̦͚̬̯̱̯̣ã̶̜̮̥̙̫͚̼̼̥̲̻̣̹̰̖͍͎̪̄ͨ̾ͫ̃ͤ̓̍̅̈́̎͒̄̉ͩ̍̃̚͜m͋ͤ͛́̀ͦͦ̊̊͗ͭͦͯͪ̄̾̓̔҉͏̦̪̥̭̠͙͈̫̱̺̤̣̳̬͡ ̸̹̞͔͎̺͈͈̩͖̹͔̙͆̍͐ͯ̈ͪ͑̅ͭ̂̄ͨͪd̊̒̏ͩͧͯ͆͟͏̜̘͖͖̳̭͖̳̼̀́͞a̧ͩ̈́̆̿ͥ̍̏̑͆̐̈́ͬ̀ͯ̆͐͊͠҉̰͕̠̘̦͞r̷̛̮͙͚̗̻͈̝̩̦͖͍̽̐̍͑̐̇͆̐͋͌̇̄ͧ͌̽́͢͠ķ̡̮̙͕̰͚͕̤̲̬̝̳̀ͮͦ̓̀͊̅̌̽̄̅̕.̴̛̣͉͖̖͉͖͈͇̞̤͙̲̯̪̊̉̌̍͐̆ͮͨͥͧ̀ͤͬ͑̏͑͢͝͝ͅ

Burdens

A long time ago there was a man that struggled. He struggled with friends, school, family, God and himself. There was a great deal of pain and suffering involved, for although this man fought for right, he did wrong. Although he committed wrongs, he repented but only to fall back in the cycle. Eventually that led him down a path of darkness, a path that was unfamiliar, dangerous and inflicted the man with pain. The path was familiar; a sharp pain shot through his body as he the memories flooded back to him in a wave of nausea. The reality was, he had been down this path, a path he knew was wrong, a path he knew was dark. He turned to his savior that had pulled him back from he depths once before, but was greeted with nothing. An overwhelming sense of loss overcame him, as he fought back globus hystericus. Where? Why? He looked down at his wrist, where tethered once was the saving line that pulled him from the dark before, but only saw the raw and blistered mark that was left where it had been ripped away. It was all that had kept the man from losing his way, keeping him close to his savior. He looked down the path where he had just come from, and it began to fade away, vanishing into the distance. Turning back down, the teasing whispers coaxed with lust, greed, and the taste of bitter-sweet. He traveled further, into the thorns that cut deep into the skin, pouring bloods down in bright red streaks. The whispers taunted the man's mind, tearing at his soul, breaking his defenses. He listened to those voices, knowing full well that the path he was on was dark and deadly. Eventually the man become lost in a mist that shrouded everything around him, holding him down and threatened to suffocate him. He shouted and no one heard, firmly held by the invisible in the night that had him captive. His feet dredged through the swampy thickness, his legs burning and immovable. A sudden weight pushed on his shoulders and forced the man to his knees, where the flames of the coldness licked at his fingertips, taking him down into the murk. He closed his eyes. He could feel the cold creep up his body, slithering its way around his neck, over his face. A tingle rippled down his spine as the snake tightened its grip, digging a foothold deep into the bone. He could feel the snake taking it from him; his hopes, dreams, love and life.

Slowly.
Meticulously being taken.
Dark.
Darker.
Darkest.
Gone.

Beginners by Raymond Carver

“What do any of us really know about love?” Herb said. “I kind of mean what I’m saying, too, if you’ll pardon me for saying it. But it seems to me we’re just rank beginners at love. We say we love each other and we do, I don’t doubt it. We love each other and we love hard, all of us. I love Terri and Terri loves me, and you guys love each other. You know the kind of love I’m talking about now. Sexual love, that attraction to the other person, the partner, as well as just the plain everyday kind of love, love of the other person’s being, the loving to be with the other, the little things that make up everyday love. Carnal love, then and, well, call it sentimental love, the day-to-day caring about the other. But sometimes I have a hard time accounting for the fact that I must have loved my first wife, too. But I did, I know I did. So I guess before you can say anything, I am like Terri in that regard. Terri and Carl.” He thought about it a minute and then went on, “But at one time I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself, and we had the kids together. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you figure that? What happened to that love? Did that love just get erased from the big board, as if it was never up there, as if it never happened? What happened to it is what I’d like to know. I wish someone could tell me. Then there’s Carl. O.K., we’re back to Carl. He loved Terri so much he tries to kill her and winds up killing himself.” He stopped talking and shook his head. “You guys have been together eighteen months and you love each other, it shows all over you, you simply glow with it, but you’ve loved other people, too, before you met each other. You’ve both been married before, just like us. And you probably loved other people before that. Terri and I have been together five years, been married for four. And the terrible thing, the terrible thing is, but the good thing, too, the saving grace, you might say, is that if something happened to one of us—excuse me for saying this—but if something happened to one of us tomorrow, I think the other one, the other partner, would mourn for a while, you know, but then the surviving party would go out and love again, have someone else soon enough and all this, all of this love—Jesus, how can you figure it?—it would just be memory. Maybe not even memory. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. But am I wrong? Am I way off base? I know that’s what would happen with us, with Terri and me, as much as we may love each other. With any one of us for that matter. I’ll stick my neck out that much. We’ve all proved it anyhow. I just don’t understand. Set me straight if you think I’m wrong. I want to know. I don’t know anything, and I’m the first to admit it.” -Complete Short Story

On The Vanity Of Existence: A Splintered Mind

"The vanity of existence is revealed in the whole form existence assumes: in the infiniteness of time and space contrasted with the finiteness of the individual in both; in the fleeting present as the sole form in which actuality exists; in the contingency and relativity of all things; in continual becoming without being; in continual desire without satisfaction; in the continual frustration of striving of which life consists."

-- Arthur Schopenhauer

Why is life so complicated?

Where are the answers?

Why doesn't anyone just reach down?

Who's listening anyways?

Is it just my twisted perception?

Where does it come from?

My soul?

Yes.

These questions have a force and a momentum all their own, but they do not anticipate the unlikeliest of reactions: that depression isn't some evil that needs to be extirpated from the mind or some disease that needs to be palliated by drugs; that it might be an embodiment of philosophical pessimism, a natural reaction to one's social surroundings and situation. Imagine if the term were defined non-pejoratively, even positively:

"Depression, in most of its manifestations, is the healthy suspicion that 1) there may not be an aim or point to existence, and/or 2) that the life people have actually created, the 'structure of society,' is not one worth participating in. The objective should not be to kill this suspicion, but to tame it and work with it."

Depression can sometimes occupy the same intersection of the psyche as genius. Philosophers such as John Stuart Mill, William James, and Friedrich Nietzsche suffered the worst throes of depression. A host of other artists and writers suffered the same fate, including Edgar Allen Poe, William Blake, Mark Twain, Wolfgang Mozart, Charles Dickens, Vincent Van Gogh, T.S. Eliot, Ernest Hemingway, and Sylvia Plath.

What is the practical import of this? That the best and truest therapy may consist in examining the condition or state itself, with understanding being the chief goal, not any simple fixes or meliorative expediencies; in locating the etiology somewhere in the ebb and flow of social relationships, realizing that some of the most brilliant people who ever lived were depressed, and that no super drug is effective enough to eradicate the ills of culture and modern society. Philosphy and Depression

Speaking My Mind

Speaking my mind is something I do; its not a bad thing to be honest and say what you think, but a problem arises when there is disorder in functioning to think. Could it be a base substitution, deletion, insertion or what? Does it result in overproduction or a deficiency of the mind? Maybe, what is more toxic than the thought itself, is the product of that thought? I strive to understand the mechanism behind it all, but its overwhelming. Like my organic chemistry final.

‘Self-knowledge’ commonly refers to knowledge of one's particular mental states, including one's beliefs, desires, and sensations. It is also sometimes used to refer to knowledge about a persisting self -- its ontological nature, identity conditions, or character traits.

WHO AM I?

The snake in my spine whispers tales, begging for attention, suffocating my spine, until my spine agrees and I speak. Where do my ideas come from? Is it my mind or the snake. But aren't they inseparable? Which makes every act an act committed, under the influence by the snake. It whispers truly sweet words, yet deep inside its voice is a harshness unparalleled by anything of the physical world. I am entwined so intimately that I can't help but think I am my greatest enemy, possessing the traits and characteristics necessary for an innately evil human being.

The battle against the serpent wages on, until hopefully some day...

it will end

Contrary to the taunting nature of the snake, I still have faith, as weak or shriveled as it may have become. I believe it will once again become strong.


If you cannot love the pain, you can at least love the lessons it teaches"
— Andrew Davidson

Let me see your scars

Fail.

The Dead Theta

What: Earth Daydemonstrate popular political support for an environmental agenda. He modeled it on the highly effective Vietnam War protests of the time. It will "bypass the traditional political process."

When: April 22, 1970

Who: Gaylord Nelson, a United States Senator from Wisconsin, and Denis Hayes, a Harvard University graduate student. Hayes is the national coordinator of activities.

Garrett DuBell compiled and edited The Environmental Handbook the first guide to the Environmental Teach-In. Its symbol was a green Greek letter theta, "the dead theta".


The story goes that Earth Day was conceived by Senator Gaylord Nelson after a trip he took to Santa Barbara right after that horrific oil spill off our coast in 1969. He was so outraged by what he saw that he went back to Washington and passed a bill designating April 22 as a national day to celebrate the earth.

Senator Nelson chose the date as the one that could maximize participation on college campuses for what he conceived as an environmental teach-in. He determined that the week of April 19-25 was the best bet. It did not fall during exams or spring breaks, did not conflict with religious holidays such as Easter or Passover, and was late enough in spring to have decent weather. More students were likely to be in class, and there would be less competition with other events mid-week, so he chose Wednesday, April 22. Asked whether he had purposely chosen Lenin's 100th birthday, Nelson explained that with only 365 days a year and 3.7 billion people in the world, every day was the birthday of ten million living people.

“On any given day, a lot of both good and bad people were born,” he said. “A person many consider the world’s first environmentalist, Saint Francis of Assisi, was born on April 22. So was Queen Isabella.

Is a giraffe a ruminant?

I wonder... It was brought up, not only in one class, but two. So I wiki'd it. And yes, they are a ruminant.

Physiologically, a ruminant is a mammal of the order Artiodactyla that digests plant-based food by initially softening it within the animal's first stomach, known as the rumen, then regurgitating the semi-digested mass, now known as cud, and chewing it again. The process of rechewing the cud to further break down plant matter and stimulate digestion is called "ruminating" -Wikipedia

As long as we're talking about unusual african creatures, have you ever seen a hippo fight? I would suggest taking a peek, because they are AMAZING! I watched one on animal planet while eating a quesadilla, by my lonesome. It was very entertaining. It made me kind of want a baby hippo best friend, like Mzee the Tortoise. They look like a looks-like-a-pig-acts-like-a-cow-swims-like-a-manatee-fights-like-a-hippo thing. I say that because a hippo fight is the most amazing of all fights. They are apparently related the most closely to whales. Hippos are unique to the animal world, theres nothing much like it. That's why hippos kill the best ideas- always.

I Bet If We Kissed- The Research

I bet I could fill his shoes

I bet I could see it through

I bet if I put my mind to it

Then I could love you

I bet God made you and me

At the same time, baby

I bet if we kissed

The city would plunge into darkness

I bet if we kissed the swings would freeze in motion

I bet if we kissed a storm would blow across the ocean

I'm in love with a guy

The apple of my best friend's eye

He'll never know my suffering

No, I can't beat to look at him

There's no relief in such an awful thing

I bet I could give you space

I bet I could keep you safe

I bet like me you thought when you got wheels

You'd be the first to leave this place

I bet God made you and me

At the same time, baby

I bet if we kissed

The city would plunge into darkness

I bet if we kissed the swings would freeze in motion

I bet if we kissed a storm would blow across the ocean

I'm in love with a guy

The apple of my best friend's eye

He'll never know my suffering

No, I can't beat to look at him

There's no relief in such an awful thing

I bet if we kissed before we'd ever spoken

I bet if we kissed our young hearts would get broken

I bet if we kissed the swings would freeze in motion

I bet if we kissed a storm would blow across the ocean 

Burned By Love

The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson.