“What war has taken me? This pace is a blur. My words are compromises. Since I can remember, every thought has died. Save for the strength to inherit myself. By steady patient ears, while original songs are mute until the hum of the common chorus. My low swinging despairing tone is the universal remorse: the chiding, flourishing resentment in adult eyes. When they cannot remember. What metaphysics identify with your over-nature? Empathy sought perception in the panpsychism of the all-encompassing, and verily do I shatter across the universe with you. Such is the unromanced extrinsic skepticism of purity. For nought of embracing maturity; would that the dead be the all-knowing while the living never know life. Would that my ancient walk with Pyrrho be not punctuated by my stumbling, while I am suffered by finite parallel time. It has me bowing by mountains once promised to be oceans. The agelessness of life. Therein, the great hope, my starving momentum is crushed. As I free fall from the bottom of the Earth. I embrace my child therefore am I forgotten. I watch the end of essence and I am undone by the curse of my resilience. My smiling spirit cheers the hero onward.”
Scoochathustra stands in the day of his measurement. The celebration of his aging identity masquerading as wisdom. While the ripple of wrinkles bend by his eyes.
“I conjure the perfect memory in an image as digression from reality, until the pompous circumstance of now denies the curiosity of then. The image glows and beams through me. The internal monologue quiets and listens. What is it that tugs on me? That pulls these tears from me? What is it that stops them at the brink of my eye?”
“I move to compel understanding; I do not want to be alone now. I write these pages as scars on your perception, the great memory of adulthood. Our knowledge resists all truth. Is not every thought an acceptance of not knowing, while refusing the existence of, anything else? While even not knowing is the condemnation of limited knowledge; possibility suffocated as perception. Such surrender is false, while such power abhors itself by claims, demanding existence. Such is the illusion of fact, and understanding, and control. Ah the impermanence of truth, and the attachment of conclusions. Ah consciousness, and order, and reason, and grandeur. Ah objectivity, and supposition, and routine, and epitome.”
“Ah repetition. Discovery. Acceptance.”
Scoochathustra peers over his nose into the endless destiny of knowledge crowding around him. Everywhere he goes, there it is. Suddenly, in the abyss of dim lights surrounding him, he sees you, the bright one.
“How are ideas more poetic to me, more than any poetry, of some relationship, and your pleasures, and your feelings. All discourse as dialogue, containing two, and maybe more, but never all. You and I and the absurd destination of us. Of matter I am detached. By my consciousness I am let loose. By my heaviness I am retained. And I look to you, and I am suffocating, and I am needing. And we make sense of energy when we touch. A frenzy of purpose fills our chest, and we sink deeper into the unfathomable. But by my head, by my friends, I am held in awe. Seeing everything that is happening. How people exist. The horror. Watch them defend their fear. Watch them die for it.”
He stands and brushes himself off. He loves you for being with him. But he would not have you stay for much longer.
“I cannot flee the weight of everything. I am a prisoner of language when I think on it. Of communication, of limitation. Ah the lull of disinterest. All movement has course without me. Why then should I make use of my feet? Everything will change. Therefore move now, or stagnate eternally. What existentialism has claimed your perfection? What nihilism has the destitution of your ambition? Embrace it, be free from culture, and move forward. What means, by which to experience, has murdered our living?”
“May that I never exit the beautiful gaze. May that I never walk with you the forgotten children.”
“While the day is calm in the palm of my chest, I wade in the wind, a wanderer of the unfathomed, glistening specks fluttering about as ideas, and I chew on my teeth for as long as sense has focus. Ah the playful feral laughter of new born spirits.”
He wipes his eyes. Fatigue has bested his interest with kissing your cheek tonight. He would rather gaze upward than massage your charisma.
“A hero yawns and stretches in me. A virtuous noumenon calls upon me to rest. My energy yearns for my mother, as she touches my forehead, and I see everything.”
Thus Spoke Scoochathustra