/lit/ - Literature

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Anonymous Tue Apr 16 14:53:06 2019 No.12945193 [Reply] [Original]

I was reading a Yeats poem, and I felt pass inside of me a spook of subservience. Am I really so individual? I thought of how beautiful it is to love equality, and philosophy, but then I felt the sycophant within me. It was, ironically, obsequiousness to my philosophy teacher, who more than any ironic leftist tells me that I am free to have my own views, as is common with philosophers. But who am I really to desire the affirmation of others, whoever they are? What if they are not right? The obsequiousness within me is the result of many whips of retaliatory action for transgressions, through a never ending chain of transgressors whipping other transgressors, to purge the transgressor out of them, and replace it with the obsequious sycophant.

It is clear why one would fear transgressions by the savage monkey tribe known as leftists, but to fear the judgment of one's philosophy teacher, that shows how far gone I really have become. The perils of many years of authority stomping my neck with its morality has left a throbbing pain in my head, which manifests itself as a screaming banshee of self righteousness which has nested itself an awful nest inside my head, and does not cease to bother me although I know it is only a phantom and a spook. However I can purge this figurative demon will be a welcome change.

I find myself at a crossroads. Does one go down the path of resentment, and fall into new perils, resenting high and loftier sorrows such as the nature of the human condition itself? Or does one somehow find peace, through the knowledge that a thing is a thing, and simply let it be in a quiet detached state of mind? One hardly could, the condition of attachment to the world remains though an utterly unshakeable burden. But it's really a matter of choosing which things to worry about, and which not to, as opposed to allowing the whole thing to swallow you whole like a great portentous all consuming cloud which obscures the path of the true way.

Hopefully through feeling out this dark and ponderous cloud I can construct a pathway as one plots out the pages of a book word by word, and when the banshee comes dissipate her because she is no longer real.

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