Perspective

I am terrified of my own perspective. It is twisted with the prejudice of human nature, a vile and blinded beast. The truth is a lone black hole amongst a constellation of ideological inconsistencies. Those who seek it are drawn towards it, yet it cannot be seen. It is largely unprocurable by human thought, which is unworthy of the full scope of its magnitude. A man can only try to eliminate the false apparitions of what other men follow as truth, for he knows that it is invisible. Whittling away pieces of the massive log of collective human beliefs, his sharpened blade of logic closes in on the figure of truth. And then, with a final slice, he realizes that there is nothing left but chips upon the floor, for truth is amorphous. Seeing this, he must accept that all people are too poisoned with subjectivity to catch the full form of the ghost that is truth. He goes about his life in the manner that he pleases, but is never so arrogant as to enforce upon others what he interprets the truth to be, for he knows that no man can fully comprehend it. He returns to such questions occasionally for entertainment of the mind, but understands that he must be content with conclusions that are ever undefined.

Current Mood: Quixotic

Listening To: N/A