Here is our problem: you can prove with math that 2+2 = 4, but you can’t prove that I should give a fuck.
Again, we’re back to fucking Plato.
A philosopher is someone who lacks wisdom, longs for it, and knows he is not what he ought to be.
For the existentialist, there is no love apart from the deeds of love; no potentially of love other than that which is manifested in loving; there is no genius other than that which is expressed in works of art…In life, a man commits himself, draws in his own portrait and there is nothing but that portrait.
Take my heart
take my bones
take this skin— that
I’ve never felt attached to.
Oh, dear stranger,
how I long to be connected
to something beyond this world.
I stay up every night and ponder
my existence and this limited time
I was given; it can’t true that I have
just woken up 24 years ago because
I feel the dirt of history in my bones.
There must be something
that these transcends this human flesh
and meaningless thoughts.