Random Boo

The mind is eternal, infinite, and spiritually potential. Unlike the encompassing body, it exists outside space and time. The body is not eternal and infinite, but instead decays and is webbed into the delusional reality matrix of now and here.
My reflection incarcerates me, envelopes me in a nauseating consciousness. Why? It nauseates me because I’m no longer free; I’m no longer infinite. Infinite means having no limits, and having no limits means beginning and ending nowhere, encompassing everything everywhere always. Therefore, from the point of view of an infinite being, nothing exists but it; it is totally, absolutely, and unconditionally everything and all that there is. To an un-reflected me, there are no others, not even the concept ‘others’. No ‘me’, no ‘you’, no ‘we’ no ‘they’ no ‘this’, no ‘that’, no ‘these’, no ‘those’. There is only ‘I’. In the entire Universe, there is only one identity, and it is ‘I’. It is that, no matter how many things may seem to you to exist, from the point of view of an infinite me, there exists only one thing, in only one place, at only one time, and all of that is and always is wholly itself, I.
By definition, I is mind and mind encompasses, or includes, or is, everything that there is, and therefore there exists — there can exist — no thing, no where, and no when, which it is not. Whatever is, it is. That is what being infinite is; living in the mind, means: Having no limits of any kind. No beginning and no end, no fixed centre and no circumference. No boundaries of any kind, neither in time nor in space, or in any other dimension; no specific form, either physical or conceptual, no name and no shape.
In order to make proper use of a mirror, a viewer must be able to distinguish himself or herself from everything else reflected in the glass, not to mention from the glass itself, and the room in which it is located, and the time and the space in which the reflection is occurring. It’s this reality that troubles me, bounds and limits me to self. I become no longer infinite; I’m dying.

There are one hundred and twenty five billion galaxies in the universe, each containing over a hundred billion stars spiralling aimlessly. It is here on one of these stars the floating corpse of a planet labelled Earth is staged; infected with over six and a half billion bewildered glorified monkeys. Every orbit of the star this godforsaken rock completes the monkeys run! Vomiting incoherent dribble pointlessly into cellular phones and purchasing high definition televisions, so they can observe other monkeys perform this pointless ritual of socializing. Obtaining bigger, faster, louder vehicles and bigger greater houses in the hope of attracting a mate, so they can spawn additional monkeys like bacteria and infest further still! On and on like a never ending circus performing, always performing, meaninglessly. This irrational, illogical behaviour is madness!
Yet despite this madness being apparent they chose to ignore. Their innate morals are inherited and their justice system dogmatic. They criticize law and complain unconstructively then follow regardless. They conceive concepts like evil to label sly motives and natural obstructionism. They put their faith in the penning of past and claim inconsistencies the work of a devil.  They claim a dice throw justifies a saint. They claim to be righteous and virtuously good, despite an egotistic anticipation of contentment galore. Then they condemn a theorist and start a never-ending war.

Look here upon this society of thespians, cultivated by reciprocal delusion, matured by observational amendment. My adolescence pillaged recklessly to state void of compassion. What is love, if love be irrevocably blind? This catharsis; this adulterated liberation, manifestly not blind nor gratifying neither. Alas love a deficient concept.  What is this perpetual adoring; why this pestilent parasite? A mutual quintessence presents not. My sterile disposition inept; how can one adore whilst not adored? What motive is spent upon this desolate stage? I loathe beauty, I detest company; I despise what I grasp not. This self-solidarity of solitude is my narcotic ecstasy in this theatre of belligerent bastards; this congregation of arrogant pretentious cretins. What be love but a delusional comfort. What be life but a dawdling demise. What be thou, the god; recipient of my vomited discourse? A nonentity you be but a fictitious token.

Alone I am perched upon my rigid chair within my frigid chamber. It’s dark and gloomy, deeply obscured by inky shadows devouring the warmth, devouring the very soul, devouring the very existence of the room. Only the echoing pulsation of a clock drumming its piecing rhythm remains. This is my chamber, this is my life. I find myself lost in a pointless void, with neither reason nor benefit to persevere life. What be the purpose in such a life I am burdened with, hampered, trapped in the restraining chain of anxiety that be the very existence of I? I’m a talent-less fool with nothing but a dream I can not translate, nothing but a concept of life I can not understand, like an inkless pen I stand here inanimate, in the shadow of my own dream, a nonentity. With all my sins and foul judgements, I am not disorientated, adrift, or astray, I am lost. Everyday this tormenting reminiscence tickles my throat, a sort of displacing and desiccated feel that submits me to sensations of sickness. I can’t even look myself in the mirror anymore without diverse feelings of defeatism and loathing as my mind becomes segregated from me. I seem to have washed my hands of myself in an attempt to rid myself of hurt and hate, I am not me, and I will never want to be.  I welcome the utopia of death, I desire the worlds end. I hate the human species, no compassion; I have no sympathy for them at all. They have overstayed their welcome. They are corrupted with greed like lust and gluttony. The mentality of Hitler, the self-discipline of Roscoe Arbuckle, and about as useful to the world as Graham Norton, This is not madness, this is simply observation.

An epiphany has dawned, forgive my previous haste towards the aforementioned sin, I am no sinner, how can I be? It’s fictional like evil be just opinion. I feel a self disrepute, but how can I be shameful of particular reminiscences when only I have knowledge of them. Who is judging me?
However, innate personality also nonexistent therefore said memories is me, I am the product of my upbringing. One should then embrace these sin labelled memories as token. Life is no test!
As contradictory as the following statement may sound I insure you it is not. You must realize that there is no rabbit hole. The meaning of life is the desire of life. Emotional obstructionism is the human sphere, a nucleus manipulating the pulses of the self renders our one desire into a multifaceted intricate imagination of aspiration however utterly insignificant, and all the splendour is this bio-contraption simply desires life, nothing more. I am no sinner.

Oh what will of meaningness
That we hold like are own pride
Or may play are madness sins
As one stands for which side
But I do inpart believe
That madness is in heart
Although meaning is but a hope
Thus they are but of part

Its the Torturing Reminiscence on a past of divorced reaction
Awakens surging regret that beams Reflections in fraction
No follow Fascist Religion and I’m anarchist to Government
But the Cross that consorts fear casts a doubt on my judgement
With believe hostility aside along with my loathing of mankind
I am inpart apprehensive of What God’s jury will find?