You ought to think
or you'd cease to be.
Love
is so sought after,
so obsessed over,
ever so slaughtered,
martyred,
profaned,
and tarnished.
There are questions
the individual must never
stop asking.
You must never
stop asking.
Your thoughts
are the children
of your questions.
A beautiful metaphor
is that which ties:
a question,
a desire,
and love.
A chord of three,
is that which defines.
Do you see?
Look in a mirror
and see.
Who art thou?
'To love,'
'tis simply a verse;
no object,
no subject
supplied in its
confession.
The who is
all the more
critical,
as critical as love,
for 'tis who
that would
love and be loved.
I ask, therefore,
and pose a question:
Who art thou?
The who is created
with the chord of three,
so strongly bonded
to the spirit-
lonesome.
Longing, and
desperately clinging
to be answered.
A passion:
to desire,
to question,
to love.
From where,
to where,
when,
why,
who,
who,
who...
The philosopher's
question
is a confession of love.
The lover's
confession
is a burning passion.
The man's
desires
are the questions,
unanswered,
forgotten...
We have forgotten!
So much have
we forgotten!
The 'I'
has been
forgotten.
What is self?
Is it too much
to ask,
is there so much
more that
troubles you?
What is it?
What troubles you?
What in this damned
existence troubles you so much
that you can't question,
can't desire,
can't love?
Do you not see,
the chord is
you and I?
We are brought into
existence
with such a vivid
lack!
Despondency,
angst, and madness
is the nature of lack!
'Tis the nature of self!
A question without an answer.
A desire unfulfilled.
A love unrequited.
This is life,
our origin,
our chord!
It cries affectionately
for your audience,
why do you ignore it so?
What troubles you so?
What is so damned important
that you refuse your chord?
"How do we refuse it?"
I know not
how to answer.
For 'tis nature
that would confess:
"truth knows."
Do you not see?
You have been stricken with
great blindness.
No, there is nothing
for you to see!
Look in the mirror,
what do you see?
Indifference,
silence,
a perpetual
hum or a moan.
The mirror would fail
to reflect that
which ceases to exist!
The grey would swirl and engulf
all that is vivid and true.
The anguish and despair,
the hot tears of want,
where have they gone?
Your questions have
stopped,
you cease to desire,
and yet you demand love!
How empty your demands!
Empty, like an echo
that reminds the
void of the former self.
You seek value?
Stand upon the scale,
and it would scarcely budge!
If thoughts define,
then what thoughts
define you?
Empty and deprived,
devoid of want.
Devoid of what is
duly expressed.
The value of self
is determined by the
weight of one's chord.
Supply and demand!
Your lack of demand
profanes the love
that is ever supplied!
You tarnish love
in such a way!
To be blind to
your own lack,
'tis that which
tramples the grace
manifest in red,
in death!
The truth is weighed
and measured worthy
ONLY BY ITS QUESTION!
What value is there
to an answer
without her
question?
What value is there
to the lover
without his
beloved?
What value is there
to food,
to warmth,
to pleasure,
to everything,
without desire?
Who art thou?
You were created,
with eternity in your hearts.
What is eternity?
For man's chord of three
is that which is
eternal.
Our cup is bottomless.
We desire
to fill our
empty cup!
Answer me!
Fulfill!
Love!
Such are the outcries of the spirit!
Such are the haunting
demands of my soul.
So we die,
we rightfully die
a million deaths
in absence of truth.
The angst compels
us to question,
to desire,
to love.
Where is your angst?!
Where is your anguish?!
The anguish of lack?
In silence
we wallow.
In self-pity
we wallow.
The delusions of
now cloud the eternity
that we are condemned
to dream.
So, dream.
Dream of stars,
of seas, of heaven,
of hell, of love
and above all else
dream of truth.
We sleep with the promise
of tomorrow and our waking
is our declaration to hope.
There is no hope
without lack.
Think, therefore,
of who thou art
or you'd cease to be.
)