peers with monsters on Nostr: I wonder if we have all been driven insane by the comparative lack of death, an ...
I wonder if we have all been driven insane by the comparative lack of death, an enormous blank spot whereupon the words, "MEMENTO MORI" should be emblazoned, their absence leaving a faint outline around which the material is slightly more faded than not.
Nothing in history nor memory really prepared us to deal with the relative rarity with which death took us, from disease, from age, from the act of giving birth.
Maybe we are simply not wired to never deal with death.
The boomer obsession with prolonging life to far beyond the point at which quality or meaning may be attributed to it,
The materialism transforming itself into greed and addiction in the clutching, bony fingers of the aged.
The nihilistic view that none of it mattered to begin with, a callous rejection of the prosperity neither earned, nor wanted.
The casual consideration of death, the enthusiasm for suicide, a twisted form of the desire to deal with death.
With an end, a limit, that which comes before matters, that which comes after matters. With no such demarcation, there is little hope to stake either import or meaning in the shifting sands of time. Death is the rock upon which the self is built, the reference point for all other measurements in life, and beyond. The soul abhors the boundless, the infinite, the eldritch.
Nothing in history nor memory really prepared us to deal with the relative rarity with which death took us, from disease, from age, from the act of giving birth.
Maybe we are simply not wired to never deal with death.
The boomer obsession with prolonging life to far beyond the point at which quality or meaning may be attributed to it,
The materialism transforming itself into greed and addiction in the clutching, bony fingers of the aged.
The nihilistic view that none of it mattered to begin with, a callous rejection of the prosperity neither earned, nor wanted.
The casual consideration of death, the enthusiasm for suicide, a twisted form of the desire to deal with death.
With an end, a limit, that which comes before matters, that which comes after matters. With no such demarcation, there is little hope to stake either import or meaning in the shifting sands of time. Death is the rock upon which the self is built, the reference point for all other measurements in life, and beyond. The soul abhors the boundless, the infinite, the eldritch.