The Artist (the end)

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It was grey outside, but the landscape stretches out so far. It was bigger than he could recall. The trees are almost black and crows are looking at him. Then he sees his mom and dad. They look so young, smiling at him. He ran to them and hugged them tight. He doesn’t know how long the three of them stayed like this. It is such a warm feeling.

–          I’m sorry if I made feel so sad and so embarrassed all your life but please understand me that C was dying anyway. I wanted to spare her the pain!

–          You are forgiven my dear, no more sadness, no more sorrow. We hope that you are fine and happy here and that the staff treats you well. Anyway, you look so beautiful and strong!

–          Thank you mom, thank you dad. Yes I am fine and they are all very nice to me. I paint a lot to save the world. Look how great it is now!

–          That’s true, it is wonderful, and you’ve done such a great job.

And the sun pointed out in the sky. The green colors were bright. Crows gathered to witness the magic work of a great artist. Suddenly birds were singing and flowers blossoming. Everybody was joyful. They stayed there forever, for an eternity that no one can take away from him. It was an eternal instant of shapes and colors and melodies. It was the eternal instant of love!

                                                                          ***

The Man in White and The Woman in blue, alongside the whole staff in white and blue stood by The Artist’s bed. He was motionless; “no pulse” said The Man in White. The Artist died in his sleep; he died for a trip that never existed, he died for a dream that was dead before it was born, he died for a world that never knew him! Outside, it was an early spring!

 

The Artist (VIII)

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The Man in White kept asking about an eventual visit of relatives of The Artist. Usually visits are booked in advance. No one announced anything. So what was this trip he mentioned? The Man in White has been worried about The Artist: the latter hardly leaves his room, he rarely talks. These were serious signs of some troubles. “So again, no trip, no eventual visit, no random movements that could alert the security guys who were already on alert”, he thought.

Reading his mind, The Woman in Blue has been worried for days now. To her, The Artist, who is a patient like all the others, is no ordinary guy. She remembers a woman bringing him to this place many years ago. She did say that he lost his parents and was in many foster houses. Many foster parents refused to keep him for being crazy and a murderer. Then, he has no parents, no sisters and brothers, and no foster parents of course, no relatives. And that trip was an enigma wrapped in mystery. Or was it imaginary?

The Artist (VII)

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Guilty? Sometimes he does feel guilty for any random reason. It’s not for killing the beautiful C because he killed her to save her from the world’s problems. Whereas he felt bad towards others for not saving them, and for their misunderstanding of his mission.

Today, an idea crossed his mind. “Maybe the world is in turmoil because of me?” he said to himself; “maybe the world will start laughing again if I disappear?” He knew where this idea came from. Heroes have short lives; normal people live long. He was told that he was not like everyone else and he is aware that there is something special in him. He took some pills, for today is a big day, he will have his trip.

Today, the sun was shy and the sky was grey. He was trying to finish his painting of the landscape but everyday he must change colors; the weather is changing. He is tired of the weather and of his blurry vision. There is stillness outside: no birds singing, no people walking. Somehow, he feels lonely and trapped in his own body. Loathing the body for being heavy and disgusting, the soul has to free itself from it. That’s the big trip, the astral trip. As he was falling asleep, he saw himself from above, a laying body on the bed, a stupid heavy body. Now, at last, he can roam around freely.

The Artist (VI)

 

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The Mother is a well fit woman for her age. She works hard, along her husband, The Father, to grow the family business more and more. She always thought that the name “family business” was sadly funny. Her son was crazy and a murderer. They decided, her husband and herself, to have partners in their business. It was a shame that their son can’t inherit nor deal with any job in the real world. Even his paintings are not that good. The amount of bitterness they had to face since The Artist killed his friend was enormous. The best thing they did is to seek for him a professional help by sending him to a specialized unit for special people like him. The diagnosis included: hallucinations, paranoia and so on; she doesn’t even want to remember what the doctors had told them about him.

Although they rarely mention him, The Father and The Mother miss their son. They gave up hope and faith in his recovery. It’s better for all them to be distant from one another. The Artist is in good hands. But they both decided to pay him a visit; a visit they looked forward to and dreaded at the same time. They have mixed feelings towards him: love and fear. Will he be happy seeing them again after all this time? Will he blame them for being careless and harsh on him? Is there any love left in him? Love needs to be nourished and maintained; love is a constant effort and sacrifices. This is what they taught him and they did the opposite.

The Father and The Mother both felt guilty. They tried to hide it by working hard. Guilt never fails to sneak up.

The Artist (V)

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The Artist is no monster. He is a regular man who is capable of unconditional love, just like he was taught to. He loved nature and the world so much that he can’t bare violence and corruption. He never understood that reality is made of different layers; some layers are better left quiet and unseen. Preaching honesty and on the other hand, hiding the truth.

On the contrary, he is a one-dimensional man, built of one dimension and that is love. His love is the stormy flooded kind, just like an endless pouring rain, or an erupting volcano. His love is like a starry night, infinite and dark, yet twinkling with lit dots. Hence, his fight against human pain started. Just like winter covers lands with snow killing plants so they can blossom again in spring. Winter doesn’t dislike flowers; it adores them so it is essential to kill them. Only nature understands this kind of love.

It was his love that brought him to this place surrounded with beautiful gardens. It is the house of the misfits. Residents here are very different from one another. Some people call it a hospital and some others, an asylum. But this place doesn’t fit anywhere; it has no name.

The Artist (IV)

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Gazing through the window at the big garden outside, The Man in White was in deep thinking. If it wasn’t for his chest going up and down, one would say he is a statue, in complete stillness. He was interrupted by The Woman in Blue:
– What’s wrong? Or are you meditating?
– I am trying to think. The more I learn, the less I understand!
– What do you mean?
– How do you define “normal”?
– Normal is the common, like the common sense. Why this question? Asked The Woman in Blue.
– So the norm is what is allowed and accepted by the mass. What we should be and do and think and feel. But we fight all our lives to be different, because only a teenager wants to fit in; an adult wants to fit out. And when the difference appears, it scares us. Why?
– Maybe because it doesn’t look like us and we don’t get it.
– Or maybe because we can’t control it. Millions of people are anxious out there and it is due to oppressive systems and ways of thinking that we have been implementing ourselves with. We are all ticking bombs, some people burst out before others. The moment they do, they become different and scary; therefore we will try to hide them, to imprison them so they are invisible. We, humankinds with our collective consciousness and cultures, have created monsters.
– Are you blaming the system for making The Artist the way he is today?
– Yes I am. We have been fooled by big words and values, all to make us alike, thinking and acting alike; each one of us is a replica of everyone. We have been taught things but reality is different. Reality is full of differences. Life is full of differences. Nature is full of differences. Society is uniformity competing against life.
– Ok, why don’t you let him escape then and have his trip?
– I’m afraid he will be dead because people can’t tolerate life!

The metaphor of life!

 

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#consciousness #literature #philosophy #prose #poetry

 

It’s chilly and dark outside and I am alone in my bedroom. It is perhaps my favorite part of the day, when I am in complete harmony with my inner self. It is the time when I rethink the world and people, when love is vivid in me. Isn’t it the way to consciousness?

The night is always magical and charming. It has the power to turn multiplicity to unity. People are all alike in the dark. They get along emotionally. It is when the brutal images of the day quit clashing in front of me and violent noises remain quiet. Then I become in a thinking mode. Music would be my greatest companion in these moments. All this is, to me, an exciting cocktail for creativity. Life is beautiful when we write it; it is never the same on every page. We write it with style and metaphors, with poetry and images. Feelings are only expressed after being crafted.

The metaphor of life makes me laugh. I would love to laugh so hard it hurts. I would love to laugh at life and for life, because life is beautiful and ironic. Once I think I understand it, it plays tricks on me. To be drunken of laughter, incapable of seeing clearly, letting all off, from my inner soul until I can hear no sound but mine, laughing! All channels in me are open, connecting with the universe; life demands openness; only death is a closure. Refusal is a closure; hate is a closure, envy is a closure. Every time I am negative, I am shutting down a part of me.

In fine, my face remains, in all this surrounding darkness, white like snow!

On Anarchism… by Noam Chomsky

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Insightful book about Anarchism and the importance of its serious consideration in politics today. In this essay, Noam Chomsky defines Anarchism as a skepticism about any type of authority which needs to be questioned constantly in order to justify its legitimacy. In other words, any authority that doesn’t justify its actions is not legitimate and therefore should be dismantled or replaced. This book is a wake up call to all people to question themselves first on their blind acceptance of their political structures the way they are. Second, it is a call to read Anarchist philosophers and to be inspired from their actions.

It is crucial to distinguish the American concepts of Anarchism and Liberalism from the European ones. Historically, in Europe, Anarchism is a political movement, spontaneous sometimes, that as aforementioned question authorities and fight for freedom and social justice. European Anarchism is synonymous to Liberalism. Whereas in U.S.A, Liberalism is ultra-conservative and capitalistic, which is the opposite of the original Anarchism. Moreover, the word “anarchy” as chaos was forged from the word “anarchism” by the opponents of the latter to point out its danger. Any authority is scared of Anarchism because Anarchism doesn’t believe in any system unless it is a voluntary organization based on the general will of its people.

To give more objectivity to his speech, Noam Chomsky analyzes some historical events, mainly the Spanish war and others, only to find that the real revolutionary people who wanted to change the world and make it a better place, were all anarchists.

This book is a great read. For the full review please check the link below:

https://www.academia.edu/40028592/On_Anarchism_Noam_Chomsky

“More wine please!”

#philosophy #Nietzsche #Nietzschequotes #wine

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Dionysos! Probably the best deity concept ever created by the Greek mythology. Dionysos, or the god of drunkenness and chaos, later known as Bacchus or the god of wine for the Romans, is the extreme opposite of Greek gods in the Pantheon.

Nicknamed by the latter as “The Oriental” for his wild tempered character, Dionysos represents our darker side, tormented instincts, with no inhibition, in a fusion with the rest of the universe. It is said according to the Greek mythology, Dionysos moved with a herd of creatures, creating uproar and terror wherever he was. Imagine a drunken violent herd moving from one place to another,  making loud noise, disturbance and fussiness. For the inventors of geometry, Greeks, through their mythology, projected all their animal instincts into one god, which turned him into a scary deity, not the kind of gods one would joke with or about. Being subtle psychologists and ahead of their time, Greeks understood the difference between public and private, surface and depth, reason and instinct.

However, Nietzsche in The birth of tragedy, a magnificent philosophy book, turned Dionysos into the source of creation. No creation is done if it isn’t from chaos. From nature (think of Big Bang) to art (pulsions taking shapes, sounds and colors, think of Freudian sublimation), chaos is the energy of life in any field. So art imitates life. Moreover, artists express the creative energy of nature through their work. Taking this idea into a deeper level, no natural chaos can exist in silence. Chaos in nature (tsunami, earthquakes etc…) is noisy and roaring. Giving birth is accompanied by sounds. In other words, life is noise (and death is silence)! That’s why, the Dionysian art is music. Music is with us from the cradle to the grave: we celebrate in music, we burry in music, we go to war in music, we make love in music! Furthermore, music is the underlying source of creativity for all kinds of art, even for painting and sculpting, drawing and writing. Because, no life = no music= no art!. This is the equation. Nietzsche says it in a different way:

“One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star”

How can chaos be transformed into a dancing star or a piece of art? How does chaos take form?

Nietzsche’s answer is through the opposite of Dionysos, Apollo, the god of the sun, of rational thinking and order, appealing to logic and clarity, to prudence and purity. Apollo gives order and shape to the Dionysian energy. Think of it in physics and the theory of entropy, or any energy and its aim to expand that is forced to create living shapes to preserve itself from being completely lost. Therefore, unshaped chaos can be lost with time if it doesn’t come to creating something out of itself. Think of it in writing process: you might have an idea about what to write or not, but during writing, the foggy idea becomes clearer and clearer. This is Dionysos and Apollo in Nietzsche’s philosophy.

Then yes please, more wine! More chaos and drunkenness! More fusion and creativity in all levels of life, not just in beaux-arts. Cheers to the one who inspired me to write this post, and we were discussing life over a bottle of wine, while joking and mocking, laughing out loud, completely Dionysian! It couldn’t get more Nietzschean than this!

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How to heal from a heartbreak (according to a Nietzschean perspective)

#philosophy #philotherapy #nietzsche #nietzschequotes

Philotherapy

“You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame: how could you become new, if you had not first become ashes?”

― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Who has never had a heartbreak in his life, doesn’t live! For pain and suffering are a part of life, no matter how much we try to protect ourselves and our loved ones from pain and loss and grief, they will all occur. And the healing is a long process; that been said, the memory of it will never completely fade away. Damn it! It happened to me, many times, but the last time it did, oh dear it was bad. It was the abrupt end of a 3 year love story and I was left with nothing. Dazed and confused, the world looked different to me: and it made me curse, it made me yell and it made me understand how powerful love is in taking over all of our minds and souls and bodies. And how more violent is the loss of it. Heartbreak is a violent violation, just like rape is: something so deep, so intertwined with our inner self, taken away. Nothing fair about it. And not a single question made sense. Was it so painful because love was so deep? Or was it painful because I was older and supposedly wiser, and ended up more stupid? Is there any meaning to all this anyway?

Yes there is: a heartbreak is the best reason to think outside the box to recreate the life I wanted. That eureka moment came to me when I stumbled upon this text and no one is better than Nietzsche the dynamite, to awaken and strengthen a broken hearted:

“No one can build you the bridge on which you, and only you, must cross the river of life. There may be countless trails and bridges and demigods who would gladly carry you across; but only at the price of pawning and forgoing yourself. There is one path in the world that none can walk but you. Where does it lead? Don’t ask, walk!”

― Friedrich Nietzsche, Schopenhauer as Educator

Turning point in my life. So I decided to walk towards what I love to do, and learned a lot during the walking process:

”Happiness is the feeling that power increases – that resistance is being overcome.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche, The Anti-Christ

A famous quote that I reformulated in a daily practice only to learn the following:

  • happiness can’t be built on people but on actions/activities, for people can leave anytime taking happiness away with them
  • happiness needs self-esteem which is a core confidence that can’t be taken away
  • self-esteem is a will of power and it can only be built through a progressive activity that one loves
  • happiness becomes a will of power, an affirmation of life

Two years later after my heart got broken, I can say I have never been in a better place in my life. As if everything fell in its place. Trust me it works. I shared those tips with people I know and now I am sharing it with you. I can’t wait for your comments…

“Pardon me, my friends, I have ventured to paint my happiness on the wall.” 
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra