Would it be so bad if each sport event ended with a cathartic event? As it seems that the custom these days is to riot after a sporting event, why not just set up a gladiatorial contest en masse after each game?
Chaos is the bed of creation. It affords possibility and being. Order arises from chaos, yet the 2 nd law of thermodynamics claims the opposite. Entropy is the supreme chaos, yet affords no possibility. Human affairs; the will to power and the order imposed on beings. For all the reasons we inherently accept, we allow an order to be imposed on us as individuals. This imposition is defining. It becomes you as you acquiesce to its dictates. You become the role describing your behavior, your attitudes, your concerns and values, ultimately. The myth of individual liberty claims for each of us the choice of being who we are. The considered view of this myth against the backdrop of imposed order reveals unfreedom. Even in democratic moments, the order is evident. Debates are limited to issues, these defined by the interests vested in the process of political economy. But the consideration should address childhood, primarily. By the time one has matured into oneself defined by the conte...
My head is confused, my emotions are subtle and nearly flat. I don’t really know how to go, so I go as I always have...with perseverance and faith, inconstancy and doubt. I write that and ponder how one death, albeit the most important death other than my own, can make of an entire world an alien universe? I have survived nearly 18 months of grueling grief. Had I been asked to choose between this and running a weekly barefooted marathon on broken glass, I would have chosen the latter. But there was no choice, Death is an asshole that way, just shits on you and walks away. But thank you, really, Death. You exposed yourself for the fraud you are. You dare to take their carrion flesh, corpses are your trophies. I shit back at you. Stinking Death. Nothing you do takes the Love. NOTHING. That is exactly what you think you leave us with. Nothing. But you are so jaded, having killed so many and most without even a thought for how loved they ...
(A carcass on the beach.) (Swarmed by flies)(Hide baking in the sun) (Rancid, putrid)( it fills the air with the perfume of death, work of decay) (insulting my nostrils and sinus) (as certain of itself as death can be) (and as the waves reach higher) (they float the mass, rotting) (each crest an exaltation, each trough a depression) (driving the flies) (as one dark cloud) (and bearing the body, as lictors) (out past the breakers) (returning the dead thing to the sea.)
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