I just don't accept this

Departures

All things, whether they are seen at the centre-pitch of a party or the hue and the mist of a mirage, are simply human �" one may imply from it man-made �" qualities, and all philosophy and evolution in all of experience and literature lies, furthermore, in the notion of being a human. Since reason cries out and compels us motivates and gives us a reason to live and to act, since it shows on our face in the light and at night becomes hostile to the forces at play, casually driving a deriding anger, and while not only is reason a future-plan, the hope for a better world, but also a contra- statement, since reason is in the sounds of existence, the melody of an unknown woman, since to act implies a reason above it and the human body, the only emblem, our only sense of good and evil, is the binding factor of all humanity and its self-expression in the light of reason,
as we wait for the infinite in our sensory right and wrong, our blood fire gushing inside and in our words commemorating in wisdom at an ordinary light,
since thought is utilitarian,
to be alive, even in moments of loss of dignity and worth, and driven by reason, even as one takes up the gunflower against life and ourself, even as we bear in our heart many insignias and a great misunderstanding by life, in short while we are in pursuit of life time and again throughout history, ourselves in whole against the whole in us, by not saying anything, by refusing to confess to anyone, by acting and speaking today in order not to change the world nor ourselves but because we are in pursuit of life in life. Writing is this act for me. I don’t give a damn what you think, neither did anyone whose cause we are to bear as our own in fluorescence.
The only semblance to truth that exists in our time is, the only feeble moral voice, which has nothing to do with our creative instinct but everything to do with our living ones, manifestly in dialogue, and which is still more valuable than all the glittering gold of the reasonable world, in the contemplation of a world and a life, always in its break, in pessimism, a figment of the imagination of course, because no such world exists (but it does!), that one feels. This is a word that will take you places, the essence of all that is true. Yet, science doesn’t care for the will, man is still a shadow of truth. The thinker (one who thinks) lies perennially in the dark of the Earth, the good planet. When one of many begins to lose his mind and his words become unproductive yet ever so valuable, thought provoking, and art-like and it is beautiful to witness such honest, imperfect feelings (that’s beauty right there!), when the exuberance machine of life is used to drill a hole into the poles of floating earth to flatten it out a little and initiate our fall before mankind truly achieves the quantum order of everything and there is nothing left to do but to carry on living, go to church, fall in love, etc. We see in the arousing condition of the spoken manifesto a universal language able to articulate the most perfect ideas of self-government. A language very real unlike our mindless creations that need an art. One who thinks should take it upon him to learn from his dangerous voices as much as the everyday, football-watching ones, for the imagination comes from society so that we can think properly. It does originate as a prophet, but this is a man-made religion, not the other way round. Therefore, just as one not only critically examines religious texts but only so that one may learn from it, one does not believe in literature. And since the scientific and the literary are not merely patterns of thinking but in themselves institutions with rules, authority, laws, essentially the communist instinct in us �" which is why we think: thought originates in the heart but only because it’s not a real life situation, often we may abandon the heart simply pragmatically �" clad in a sky of hope and with the wealth of demons both resurrecting the past of promises and human sizes of giants meaningful only in the present state of affairs that soliloquizes possessed dreams of a meaningful cross on a hill in the city, the church sitting, in letters, antagonistic to the evening hour but also everything else, with parked cars, lovely ladies on scooters, a friendly beach, all seen from the view of a lonely, inconfident Man, the miracle of the market place, frozen ice and aunties, the pinnacle of all theory under the waking lamplights at dusk, the jeans shops and the throw of a stone in a lake, communicative functions on the verge of extinction, clothing and accessories, the negative of the real, but only objects,
for it is above all an instinct not a unity, we are not dealing with a philosophical order and a world outside of life except that this idea is very much in life and its various numbered facets, not a destiny but like a story deals with a life where one is made to write an obituary, we are not dealing with a theory and the dualism of culture/life, indeed, science has come a long way since our forefathers sought it in the supernatural, for today it simultaneously exists with the fancy restaurant, not merely analogous to culture but also, since it is culture, its logic, contrasted with instinct today, bears the primal emotions of every social setting. To hold up a mirror to being, but being is infinite desire, could the sight witness and control the thousand flames of lightning becoming magically in the sky which in our wisdom we have simply looked at to try to understand and extrapolate it to the feeling, never questioning the motive of fire in heaven: we are in fact the torchbearers of the holy fire which cultures have sought to teach us but failed since men try to control it, learn from it, create it, exhalt and extol it, whereas the motive of scientific thought is the pursuit of the sacred fire.
I've realized society and therefore all meaning, and I'm desperately clinging on to reality here insofar as I am writing, meanings of course which are very real, are illusions in the sense that they hold no moral significance. For one, this makes one incapable of action but i will transcend that through writing, an idea of course, one that i will hold close to my heart. Yet I will act. I will go on acting until the very plastic flower carries a smell. But i refuse to accept words which have no meaning. I dismiss the bewildering giant sorrow as such a word. I deny the creatures of the Earth. I see in all of existence these creatures. I therefore deny existence, but if at all, I search for something greater and something beyond it. I therefore negate man and Ideal, but only in so far as we hear in this fallacy a soliloquy to life, a song of being. In short, I choose to create.