Fuck you, fag.
DEATH of FEAR
Posit instead your life to its end:
each instant alive from meaning derived.
What dwells in your mind is the machine that computes
the essence of things, this flavour of flukes.
But what is life then but the passing of time?
The atomic existing and tandem sublime?
You sit and you watch from your cavern inside,
the senses subtracting what's fed to your mind,
a pattern of things, awareness of signs.
In spite of your fear each instant persists.
In spite of your fear, anon, know this:
all there is now is simply to live,
submitting yourself, aware you exist.
No moment lasts, the future is present,
no words to describe, no lasting lament.
It's simultaneity, insipid banality,
meaninglessness of so-called causality,
but what you have now is what to hold dear:
awareness exact of the death of your fear.
Now go read a book, queer.>>13752214
Do you remember exactly what you were doing, what you perceived and thought, five years two months ten days and six seconds ago? Maybe you have some vague idea, but I doubt you can recall with any surety or precision. Maybe it was an instant of pain or terror or confusion that you've since forgotten. So what does your lack of memories from before your birth do for you? Do things not exist if you forget them?