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An extasis on the Real

From all the depths conforming human mind, desire is the hardest to quench. Here and there, I spot no immutable reason, no universal rule nor forever-lasting statement, but a bunch of subjective opinions attempting to trap destiny’s intentions. Because —from an ontological perspective— there is no way of stating an ultimate Truth, we dare to state our ultimate Opinion.

And while we wrestle for a better reason while losing it accordingly, The Real takes the stage. The Real does not obey humans; It does not even care about them. The Real means whatever things are regardless of whoever is looking at them. The Real withholds our expectations along with our terrors. However we play the game, The Real will eventually appear in order to remind us how limited our will and power are.

But to what extent our beliefs and The Real intersect each other is what makes me wonder until when we are about to keep on this payroll. There must be some perverse twist stopping us form stopping, for whenever we blame something we end up making that nightmare for Real. Whenever we fight a monster we are likely to become or breed its descendant. Never better said that Friedritch Nietsche already did:

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

Because we did not see native Americans as human beings, we took them as expendable material. We already made Witches for real because we never thought about psychoactive wheat. Hiroshima and Nagasaki turned out as graves for our sins, as if by killing some millions we would be making some sort of justice for the millions that perished in German concentration fields. Now it is the so called international, Muslim terrorism; it could have been Communism, Catharism or Cryptoanarchims.

It is almost fascinating that unjustice will be waiting, always, not matter how fair the goal that we pursue is. And I do not think unjustice comes from somewhere else but from the dark spots we allow in our morals. Whatever we blame does not matter, but the power of our hate to make it real as we attempt to annihilate it; there is the perverse twist, a reality that desires and breeds its own fuel, no matter who drives or drinks it.

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