I look at people, bearing the marks of their respective histories, and I consider our most distant ancestral pasts.... deep in our lineage before we could of ever been considered human, before the cave was painted and the fires harboured within. When we were still the playthings of the savanna- sometimes a god amongst beasts, and in the next moment, a beast of the lowest reputation, with the results befitting such a creature.... being lunch for another. We carried our marks of our history then.... so many knew the fullness of trauma then, and experienced the full wealth of pleasure and opprotunity when it did present itself. I don't find much romantic about then- infections killed, the sun was hot and left you in a daze, and the cold killed. Much as pointless.... pointless to the extent one could ever make a point.... not certain when the first point came into being, but I am certain when it was lost.... moments later when someone close died or suffered.
Our brutal lottery of existence. Each one of us are descended from survivors of the worst experiences primordially, and yet, our one constant and eternal companion that has broken the odds seemingly as often as we have, every step of the way- failure in death.... has followed us, and never given us respite. The most retarded amongst us, clinically institutionalized for their own safety, has traits of the greatest nobility and advantage that men of these earlier ages would of been in absolute jealously of, and could of exploited to terrific effect. What is a idiot savant to a tribe of baboons? What is a deranged and ostracized Babylonian to a chimpanzee? A atrophy of the spirit, in the recognition of the inane at every stage of life.
Makes you wonder about machines. The laptops, and weak supercomputers currently not capable of much. Something in them can be sense of potentiality, something that causes a twinge of doubt about the sanity of moving foreward with their development, and yet we do so anyway. We encourage in some regards our replacements, our siblings, our inheritors and symbionts of a future not yet arrived. We give charity to the downtrodden at times.... not always, some of us profess a more brutal philosophy than others in this regard, but behind every argument can be seen a spark of altruism, and a still pure heart.
It's hard to say what will succeed, and what will die. Consciousness of the inane may be more beautiful to behold than that of the survivors- they may of had more work put into them, been born the more beautiful, the successful- and like that- they are gone.... survived by no offspring.... a complete and totally unsuspecting surprise. We survive. We. What is a 'we' in such a circumstance- we produce offspring, our line lives on.... and some die from each of ours- some become pitiful, others become rocks of gibraltars..... and they themselves give lines of success and failures. We the duration- the notional shared identity that we are share, that we are all staring, looking out.
How much of that 'we' is really just the chaffe soon to be thrown away? Mimicking their ancestors as far as they could go, only to lose out in the end anyway? How many of us have loved such a person, or pass them in the street, or hold conversations with them? The living dead.... the voice from the world beyond. Complete failures in the one task life has given them.... they so oftentimes have beautiful minds. Beautifully intriguing..... Nietzsche was one such absolute failure. He flowered in his inanity when our ancestors lived and did otherwise. We are all blooming, but in what manner? We are all assuming we are the 'we', but are we? How many chimeras are amongst us? Good qualities on a failed, certainly doomed chassis?
"To those human beings who are of any concern to me I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities - I wish that they should not remain unfamiliar with profound self-contempt, the torture of self-mistrust, the wretchedness of the vanquished: I have no pity for them, because I wish them the only thing that can prove today whether one is worth anything or not - that one endures."
By some guy who died pathetically, and alone, trying to make sense of his own suffering and resist the lure of death.
