Meta-McCarthy
a rant, an aphorism, another experimentation in prose
What has become of all those who have opened their hearts out to the world and yet received nothing in return? What repayment in gold or praise could ever match the feeling of one who has enough sense to dedicate what little time, what little hold of life, they have upon the world to muster up the courage to strike a path out for themselves that is true to them but also delicate to the needy, pleasurable to the thinking, and honest to their essence?
There is no art worthy enough to match living. While I strive for a cry after a forlorn idea—we writers are the most dramatic of beings—it behooves my heart to speak and ramble in a manner somewhat strange to anyone not already initiated in the manner of my thought.
Shall I acquaint you? I am insane. Full stop. Anyone who even bothers to read such a thing as trifling as my own pleas on this or that matter for the sake of passing time will instantly get the feeling that they are either speaking with a friend or a fraud, a hound or a beast. What difference does it make.
Nothing I write is with any deeper meaning beyond its own sake, for the sake of my heart, for the sake of reaching out but never being met with equal approbation. Life is its own sake. Philosophy is its own sake.
To those more talented than me, what I pen now is but the ravings of a lunatic, and fair enough. I would concur. But a man must act in a manner most becoming of his happiness if he is to endure the game of life he is forced on pain of death to play.
What play? What fun is had? From where do I even manage these wild thoughts. Whoever said there was enough misery to last a lifetime was wrong. Man cannot begin to imagine how dull he really is unless he has a thing of value to compare it to.
And what becomes of these sentences but dust, cruel dust to forever echo in the shade and pass as quick as light into the wind. The sun begins to set upon this horizon, the manner of men begins to change with the times, and still, despite this, he writes away!
The silliest creature is man, and the most amusing qualities he can have is that of pretending to be a writer. Like those ancient soothsayers or mystic divines, what the writer does is to provide their reader an experience that opens their awareness to existence. This is not false but truth.
The written word walks long paths and enters into various fields, eking out some meager subsistence while sweating with every movement, amidst the sweltering heat, looking for a stable mind by which to inhabit. The deprivation of every man is clearly seen in the eyes, windows to the soul which flutter before every novelty like a newborn babe.
Comprehending writing is almost impossible, for it requires an understanding with the written word, with the grammars and traditions of native speakers, who themselves cannot explain why they think in the manner they do. Word order is but a clown seeking a laugh at every intentional fault, but hasn't yet realized the non-laughter is because the intention was made clear before the act.
Then comes the manner of exposition, of subject, of audience, of era, of concept, of person, and most important of all, style! The living man is a living being but not being only. The awakening aspect, the metaphorical or allegorical or comical or tragical, are all but the dross of sensation, from which man picks and chooses what best conforms to his identity.
I always found the best identity was that which strove to encompass all identities, that which wanted to become like the world itself, to embrace every aspect with enough love and respect that all knowledge could be known through compassion and disdain for evil alone.
Some writers muster great efforts and produce mice. Others hardly know what they do yet scarcely know their own powers. The limits of man in the creative sphere are nowhere. Man's genius for self-discovery is like that of the circle whose center is nowhere and whose circumference is everywhere.
To startle one with words is but meeting love.
To think well is one thing but to write well completely another. Where the stars were once our guides we have replaced with a nature of acquisition not common to our forefathers. The glistening light of intelligence, once firmly shone with strength not unbecoming, now dies down to a petulant shadow which hardly inspires hope in the breast of men.
To think is hard enough, let alone to do it in a consistent manner, which, if it be not clear, at least let it be interesting, let it cause pause, let it make wonder in the mind. Man doesn't need anything except that which furthers his own end.
The egoist are the true future of man. Too many have become upheld on this or that concept of morality or ethics or philosophy or mode of being or self help or any other nonsense. Let the mind sing, sing forever and ever until the end of time.
There has never been a time when trash wasn't called treasure. Though in the noontide of this century, enough sunlight we have let slip and completely forgotten about, all to return to the same mistake and create the same thoughts that made us seek change in the first place.
What ramble is is ramble does. It is enough to be aesthetical, beautiful, joyful, life-affirming, desiring hope upon every tear, and to look at each star as if it were a soul whose presence is confirmation enough of a holy one.
Beauty in mortal things are but temporary pleasures of the senses, including in thought and appearance, but what becomes eternal is that which only magnifies what is already within the human psyche and comprehended intuitively.
Self-evident truths are so because they cannot be contrary to reason given the primary apparatus which we apprehend them in the first place. The whole world rest within the mind, but the mind is checked in its power by the world.
We cannot go beyond what we have available to us, and to assume anything outside of what empirical evidence reveals is folly. Yet there remains strong grandeur in that view of life, enough to hope on.
Many ideas for change and revolution arise in moments so fleeting and ignorant it's shocking more don't think themselves true revolutionaries. A little red book is not enough. It requires a genuine effort by all people to seek for themselves what they understand as true. This is why there will never be true utopia within the world.
Man is too vain for contentment with leisure. He will just as quickly stir up chaos and smash to bits every vice for the sake of feeling something new if it means he can acquire new sensations. The smartest are not the best. The richest are not the best. The strongest are not the best. These are ideals we conjure up in delusions of grandeur which forever remain mere delusions.
The day man overcomes himself, frees himself from all fears regarding his own becoming and awakening, his own truth, is the day he is forever liberated from all that restrains him, that weakens his power, that makes him less of what he is truly capable of.
The cultural commentator is infinitely superior to the serious, objective scholar. Camus, Nietzsche, and Dostoevsky were better psychologists than Freud ever was. The man who soaks his prose in blood and tortures his mind before every sentence is a truly worthy man.
It must live, damn it. Let it be free. Fling all concern for organization out the window so long as it be comprehensible, so long as what is writ is polished and in a literary style. A style that attracts, that evokes thought, that is enviable because of how much the words dance about the mind and retain themselves within the memory of the reader.
One can never go too far into the insane. With introspection, there is no standard, there is no authority. The only limit is how much you wish to reveal to the world.