It's your angels that make your demons. All joy derives

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Spirit is the engine of meaning. It's not that it pulls the strings of history, calm and luminous somewhere off unknown, but that it is the principle of making the best of it. No tragedy or murdered child is ever redeemed by our making peace with it; it's just that time is what stops us from catching our breath to cry. Men are always talking about what's wrong with the world, it's a precious few who can stomach the eternal fact that there is something wrong with it.

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Reality is a void eternally trying to fill itself. God is the idea of fullness. But how could the idea of light take root in an abyss? Maybe it's the light that makes darkness, maybe it's the sun in her eyes that makes the night break your heart.

I want to reply to this but i dont know how

Very powerful.

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Death is the judge of beauty. We make angels of everything that is more-than-life, that is to say, not like the rest of our lives, the vast stretches of dead and mundane time. Boredom is the felt void, and the water and soil of the rose of ecstasy.

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All life is a window into what it is not. The Void, being nothing, yet hungering for Something, could only make something of its nothingness, and so created life, its loss and terrors and mayfly joys, so we might experience the slide into dissolution as a relief, so death would always wear the face of a lost love.

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When I look at the city, the sea, the trees, with the eyes of God, it's not in the absence of the ego, God suddenly comes home to roost, it is that God is precisely the absence of the ego. Divinity is what makes death the midwife of the soul.

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>>19537215
If it weren't for the chicks, I'd hide this worthless thread.

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Love and suffering are secret lovers, they avoid each other's eyes in the thoroughfares, belittle one another in the company of friends, but it's in the alleyways they meet after dark, and between kisses confess it's all we're here for.

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>>19537215
Hmm, okay. But what if I love just relaxing and existing so much I could transcend time, time is relative after all.

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Forgiving the world means forgiving that thereis pain without compensation. What dies on the cross of self is the tyranny of hope.

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What you believe life has denied you is co-incident with your life itself. You cast a shadow only because you are a body that can't help but block the sun. The soul is a caged bird, and for some men, suicide promises them the way the light falls on the leaves.

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Something wove my veins, whether we call it natural law or God, and something made the body as the peak on which the spirit stands. Love is the fact that dust shapes itself into beauty, the principle by which eternity is affirmed in an evening.

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Every man is a shape of God cast into a mold of circumstance. Some men live and prosper, others eat shit and die. There can be no objective observers of our phenomenology; every decision we make, even the leap off a bridge, was chosen according to immanent criteria. What no one wants to admit is that some lives were failed experiments. Even God has his wastebasket.

>>19538464
if a murderer kills a child, that child was a failed experiment, because the act of murder was comparative to 'play' to the murderer. it's the same with elitist and non-elitists.

Powerful stuff in this thread.

>>19538482
Murder is not justified by anything quit lieing to yourself.

>>19538494
i was only going alone with whom i quoted's rationale....

>>19538512
along*
yeh it ain't like a chat in here where i can say stuff instead of type stuff, and it ain't like a chat room where i can type quicker than once every min.

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Christ was God through his love of the oppressed, the downtrodden, and, most importantly, the despised. Love is the kissing of evil's wound. All evil is a cry of pain, Christ is the strength to love in the murderer and the depraved neither their actions nor some romanticized fantasy of the wounded child in them, but the child as he is in his folly.

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History is the progressive revelation of nothing but the contingency of history. The woman who dies tragically dies for nothing but we what we make of it. The Hegelian negation of the negation: first there is the loss, then there is the loss of the narrative of the loss. Once in the city the silence was a psalm. Once in the streets I thought we walked in the footsteps of angels.

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Pain is infinite. But we have each brushed our crowns on joy's ceiling at least once in our lives. For every beautiful thing in your life there are a dozen who have not known it. There is no saving all these suffering creatures. The universe sinks into the black ocean of time, and the only lifeboat is the "I".

>>19538614
I disagree

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The rule is suffering and death. Everything else, the songs sung by survivors. The food served after funerals is a feast of mourning and a feast of celebration for not being one of the mourned.

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Christ saves only that in the sinner which knows his sin. That is to say, he saves the consciousness that is a consciousness of sin, without which sin could not exist. All beauty inadvertently degrades what is not beautiful. Every moment not spent in love reveals only how short the rest of reality falls of the longings of the human heart.

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Love is the vertical dimension of time: those who have lived decades of their life on autopilot live time only in its flat, formal existence. It is love that deepens the now into eternity. And it is suffering that crows the dawn.