I was talking with a fellow grocery clerk philosopher at work today. She said that she did not like Kafka at all. I explained that when ever I talk about some abstract subject in public that I feel guilty, sort of like I am on trial, but do not know just what the transgression I committed was. She said that she just speaks her mind, and is OK with whatever she said and whatever people think about her. So I am thinking, perhaps not everybody loves Kafka.
So we will try another writer.
“Being tired of all illusions and of everything about illusions – the loss of illusions, the uselessness of having them, the prefatigue of having to have them in order to lose them, the sadness of having had them, the intellectual shame of having had them knowing that they would have to end this way.” -Fernando Pessoa
I had a good tweet today. I mixed the suckage of Mark Sanchez with Trump’s frozen snake story. God it was clever.
No likes, nothing, just crickets. Crickets… Hey!
Sometimes, somewhere, I will be again. I am, but not really. For now.
“Masquerades disclose the reality of souls. As long as no one sees who we are, we can tell the most intimate details of our life. I sometimes muse over this sketch of a story about a man afflicted by one of those personal tragedies born of extreme shyness who one day, while wearing a mask I don’t know where, told another mask all the most personal, most secret, most unthinkable things that could be told about his tragic and serene life. And since no outward detail would give him away, he having disguised even his voice, and since he didn’t take careful note of whoever had listened to him, he could enjoy the ample sensation of knowing that somewhere in the world there was someone who knew him as not even his closest and finest friend did. When he walked down the street he would ask himself if this person, or that one, or that person over there might not be the one to whom he’d once, wearing a mask, told his most private life. Thus would be born in him a new interest in each person, since each person might be his only, unknown confidant.” -Fernando Pessoa
Whoa! See, Pessoa was an alcoholic. Died of it. This is one of the 12 steps.
5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Now how about that.
At the Trump rally today he mentioned the Bankers for the first time. There is a shot across the bow.
Buddy was pure. Nothing in this world is pure. Nothing pure can last in this world for long.
“I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me. A nearby field, a ray of sunlight, a little bit of calm along with a bit of bread, not to feel oppressed by the knowledge that I exist, not to demand anything from others, and not to have others demand anything from me – this was denied me, like the spare change we might deny a beggar not because we’re mean-hearted but because we don’t feel like unbuttoning our coat.” -Fernando Pessoa