Paralogismos: Real <> Fiction

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[size=115]The world of White is the world of light.

The objective world has been mythologized.
All begins with self and returns to it, carrying with it all those self-help manuals it needs to carry on, carrying on.
Philosophy is politics, and politics is psychology.
The social organism so dependent on light will find in light its grace.
Philosophy…a social lubricant.
How much happiness can we sell?
How much pleasure to deal with the human condition?
We are thinking not about the world, which we are a part of, but about ourselves within the world that remains indifferent to human ploys, and joys.

To seek happiness, pleasure, the feeding of the senses, emotions running wild and offering a deeper wisdom.
Who can resist this meaning, this sacred purpose?
Gurus emerge each with a positive spin on an ancient message for one and all.
Subjectivity is all encompassing.
Find a perspective that integrates all perspectives into a love-festival, and you need not argue for long, need taking over to diminish all misgivings.

The cult always begins with a positive.
Just see Christianity.
How comforting when the subjective is mystified.
Not the objective, the world itself, but self that can now convince itself of anything, including its own mysteriousness, if it satisfies and deals with this incessant mix.

What is self, but another word for order? [/size]

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[size=115]From unconsciousness to consciousness, and from consciousness to self-consciousness, who shall help them with the self-love when what is revealed is not so pleasant?
What White Magic will change the linear causal chains binding man to what he finds deplorable?

Playing Devil’s advocate places you on the side of the Dark, where no light can disturb you from introspecting, and whispering to yourself all those nasty things you can never speak of when you know someone is listening.
Easier to play god’s advocate.
More rewarding, more pleasant, more seductive and acceptable.

But who shall come out of the dark to speak of that which is unpleasant, unforgivable, those black expanses in between brilliant white stars?
A god?
A monster?

A loser?
The one with no-thing to lose?
The one who loves life and can still crave death?[/size]

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[size=115]The affirmation of life, and of world which includes it, begins with a negative…

Negation of other to establish self, and make awareness, discrimination, consciousness possible.
Negation of the experience of this process, felt as the temporary distraction and nullification of the sensation of need/suffering - stress of maintaining ordering within the Flux.
The negative relationship between ordering and disordering, or the need for predictable consistency, sustaining life and consciousness of it, in a world of increasing randomness.
The negative relationship between knowing and the unknown, or of any absolute in relation to the fluctuating.
The negative relationship between power and space/time; strength and growth.
The White Knight and his Preachers, must exit from this negativity, and find the light, the airy, the other-worldly, where all-inclusion validates, and certainty reigns.

The White Knight attracts the dull, the cowardly, and the simple to his side - the children, the women folk…the retarded.
Emotion, sensationalism, fantastic fantasy, the positivity of his relieving message, makes him admirable, to be valued, among those who cannot cope using their own devices.

The Knight of Darkness runs the risk of attracting the life-haters, the base and primitive, the desperate to stand out from within the herd they cannot distinguish themselves from.

Both are worshiped for different reasons, but the White Knight’s positivity makes him more prone to fall for the sensation rubbing against his vanity, and his desire to see the positive in all so that his own is not lost to him.
His motive is to bathe in the predictable feeling his message rewards him with.

In Christian faith the pretty words, and iconography, the soothing musical tones of lamentation, all offer such a reward…to the point where one forgets the absurdity the entire endeavor is founded on: the idea of a beginning requiring a Creator, and the subsequent deservedness of the flock to eternity in real reality.
The same can be said about any dogma offering flattering solutions to the indifference of the world.
Dig into the “positive”, in relation to human needs, and find there an absurdity covered over with words, and salves, and flowers, and good intentions.
A wake, for the sleeping.

The White Knight and his Preacher ask you to suspend doubt, skepticism, when ti comes to what feels good, and to show no remorse and exhibit stringent intellectual integrity to what does not.
The cynicism of the Dark Knight is his downfall.
He can never lord over the masses, and he will never be popular, not even among those who agree with him, and who cannot deny his message.

The Dark one is destined to be alone, adding another layer to his social needs, the light one is destined to be King among the inferior to him, which is no big feat; he feels alone among those he thinks little of but cannot speak honestly about, because without them he returns to being absurd, transparently needy, and invisible…as light [passes right through him. [/size]

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[size=115]The mind becomes detrimental to its own original function when its own success frees it from this function, and it then turns upon itself, or becomes free to contemplate without considering the repercussions upon itself.

One is made to wonder if it is more of an insult to tell someone what you think we wants to hear, than it is to tell him what you think is the truth, indifferent to what he wants to hear.
Both Black and White Knights are left to wonder, only the latter must become convincing, if he chooses as the less insulting option to tell the other what he wants to hear, by first convincing himself of his own flattery.

Positive feedback being a validation of his own positivity.
The White Knight must include himself in the premises he sells to others, otherwise he cannot collect the rewards these sacrifices will produce.
The Black Knight is best served by knowing, though he may flatter and offer appeasements as part of his lie, because his rewards come from outside the collective premises.

The White Knight is affected by flattery, because insult is devastating his whiteness only sustaining itself within the value standards of the ones he finds identity within.
If he becomes indifferent to judgment it is only when he has decided that it lies outside this collective premise, and so he can neither suffer nor be pleasured by it.
The Dark Knight finds insult revealing, and flattery concealing, particularly when it does not agree with his own judgement. [/size]

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[size=115]The power of the White Knight’s positvity is indisputable, infinite, without a challenge.
He can make lemonade with sour lemons, with a pinch of his magical sugars.

What can withstand such mental mastery?
When cornered in the prison showers and raped, he smiles thankfully for the “reality check”, and is grateful to his fellow inmates for their penetrating interventions.
When utterly defeated and left bleeding he declares it another one of his endless, indubitable victories.
When conquered he feels vindicated by the others desire to conquer him.
His stupidity is genius.
His weakness strength.
His love eternal.
His cowardice a new definition of courage.

Who can pierce that thickness, that tempered metal, that smiling face?

As he rots he marvels at his own unspoiled smoothness - his armor, shining in the sunlight; his technique/technology, purchased at a cost, mistaken for his skin.
How inspiring to the desperate masses he must be.
A lighthouse of unclouded light in the dark sea.
A prism taking the one light and producing a kaleidoscope of mesmerizing light displays.

“Beware of the rocky entrance to his safe harbor; his sheltering secret internal deep oceans, his private port where he will strip and mend you, giving you a new coat of paint, and a new flag to display your new colors upon…”
What feminine spirit would not soar with joy at the thought?

And all of it begins and ends with a lie.
The chosen ones have always had a knack for intellectual seduction.

What real world could compare?

Words come cheap.
Tell them all how much you love them; how greatly you appreciate them.
What does it matter, when the word’s deed ends at the tongue? [/size]

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[size=115]Have you not heard?
All knowledge is practical, and so positive in its utility.
If it is not then it is to be ignored.

Of course then there’s the entire thing about building castles on the sand, but how fun it is, for the Dark One, to watch children build under the sun, and then have the tide wash it away, when the moon rises. [/size]

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[size=115]Who could withstand the brutality of honesty, the brute force of an indifferent, unconscious, reality?
To a creature of need, desperately wanting to persevere and conserve, these idealization of intimacy and honesty is about disclosure to prevent internal manipulations.

How could the delusional offer honesty, when they know not of it themselves, and all they understand is positive, and kind, and full of promise?
These are the white lies of the white ones.
Little stories, to comfort the children and the women, lost souls repeat, changing the names of the heroes, and of the places, to make it personal, and fresh.[/size]

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[size=115]No matter the chains the white Knight puts himself in, calling them chainmail because they are defensive, he does have flexibility within the rigid structure of the metal sarcophagus he is lord of.
He can make any face he likes and he appears cold and unemotional - he can weep behind the face-plate, the mask, and nobody would know; his farts, mental or otherwise, do not exit his suit, so his internal rot is never smelled; he can flip himself over, putting his feet where his hands should go, and his arse where his head should be, and nobody would be able to discern a change - but this is only possible if he shrinks himself enough to be able to swim within his panoply.

his most precious, valuable, advantage are quantities.
He attracts morons by the droves.
every coward, every bitch, every cunt, every infantile man-child, every imbecile, from across the space/time continuum, having heard the bellow of his bovine cry, will stampede, in a frenzy, to his presence, begging to be lead to whatever he has implied.

What power does the Dark One’s elite, and his tempered steel sword have before such numbers - each with his own crutch and bandage, with a secreted switchblade hidden within the wounds of pity.
Like Orcs they come at him mindless, hungry, desperate, wanting, needing…and no matter how many heads he chops off there are still more.

Ah, but the Lord of Evil has learned his lessons.
He is, now, the Lord of Lies, and he smells that scent within and without.
Biggest lie, being that he does not exist, and nobody knows, and nobody cares, and his kindness, and social graciousness, has become his armor.
Adapt or die.

Should he speak in fables and mythologies when in the presence of these hoards of brilliance?
The chosen to suffer have no qualms about suffering, but those they lead do, having been put in a fishbowl for so long.
Studied and used, how could these fish endure the expanses of the ocean?

The White Knight hides a darkness inside.
What does the Black Knight hide? [/size]

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[size=115]See the White Knight inspiring Zombies to his metal frame?
He’s the one who acts, who thinks, who speaks, only to impress, to seduce, and to be popular.

See him begging for attention?
See him offering fresh starts to the dead-ends?
Through them he is saved, as well.

The dirt fills fertilizer with potential - with hope.
A “latent” seed may still linger in the rot.
He cannot tell, he cannot judge, he cannot evaluate…so he collects them all, piling them higher and higher…and on the top he climbs, calling himself Zarathurstra, digging a cavity to bury himself in filth.
Breathe deeply?
Can you sense the coming dawn; or is it dusk? [/size]

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[size=115]When Odysseus turns his gaze towards home, after the long war, his brow grows dark, and his heart turns black, because he knows he can never return, from whence he came, and though he may arrive he will remain a deposed King, a stranger in his own kingdom, a visitor in a place that was once a home.
His wounds are fresh; a crippled king without a throne to sit upon, but they are also a reminder of his deeds, and the battles won - each one a badge of honor, a temple of sacrifice.

Until then a long voyage awaits, and it is this that raises his spirits, and calms his nerves.
A voyage of a million leagues begins with a step, and if the destination is never reached it is in its seeking, in the voyage towards it, that a man finds his purpose and his identity.
And when the abyss takes him his last thoughts will turns westward to the home he once knew and lost, and then east to the places where he left pieces of his flesh; blood markings claiming them as his alone.

A little Daemon Odysseus has become, in this time of war, tricking and killing, with grand gifts of appeasement, and feigned defeat, before the onslaught, but how many Troys are left to him, now that his bones grow weary and his muscles dry, and all he dreams of, in the solitude of his bed, is a warm hearth, blazing in the stones, and a noble queen by his side, blazing in the loins.

Will he hear siren songs, along the way, mermaids beckoning for him to stop and to stay; little witches who wish to play, and eat him alive day by day?
Tongue flickers, venomous spawn, can he survive them and see the dawn?
Will he escape the Cyclopes and find his way around every monster remaining upon their solid states, and island universes, sand shifting beneath their huge frames?

Will he not be monstrous for them?
A dark voyager with no-name, passing by, or is he spinning a new ploy, reliving the burning of his Troy?
His cape, fluttering in the sea breezes will seem like an evil scepter’s wings deploying, and every scar across his face, a ghastly mutations of a creature they have not come across before. [/size]

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[size=115]Such an appealing serenity envelopes the minions of monism, the bright lights of all-encompassing Whiteness.
Children are overtaken with their parental aura, and women feel the energy as a power they cannot resist.

Though they offer death, the nil, they make you believe you are being given infinity, eternity, the one, the absolute, the most precious, the most valuable, the highest of all gifts.
They’ve studied the art of it, in manuals they call intellectual.
Marketing strategies, for those who wish to dominate the subjective.
This is the extent of their education, of their academic reading and understanding.

How to appeal, not reveal.
What finesse, what artistry they possess these gifted ones.

The Dark One almost wishes he were gullible enough to give into its sham, and join them, be with them.

Have you not listened to the soft resonance of a Christian preacher’s voice, when he recites his sermons from memory?
He is a death-cultist with shiny robes, and gentle ways.
So polite, so understanding, so kind, offering you the poisoned challis, blood as blood, and no wine; man flesh, as symbol - a cannibal’s delicacy.
What words of joyous hope he speaks, so wonderful, so aw inspiring, and still death-worshiping.

These White Ones have learned much in the art of domestication.
The flock is where they matter, and so subjectivity preceding itself - exiting the space/time continuum where continuity, linear time, the causal chains are shattered and anything goes.
With their delicate words they solve mysteries and cure diseases - no hands required, only tongues.

Lick, lick, kiss, swallow.
Give them pleasure so that they will follow.[/size]

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[size=115]What glorious irony when the preachers of miserly life-hatred, hatred of time, call themselves life-affirming spirits.
What glorious irony for the Knights of the Brilliant light to believe they are truly so, and not angles of darkness, and death.

In such an age where all is reversed, and inverted, change is static and static is change…and those who wear the white are dark boils, and those that call themselves humanists, are haters of man.

What parent would lie to his child to protect him from reality?
What man would tell his child comforting white lies to save him from natural need/suffering?

What disgusting, vile creatures these hypocrites are.
They wear white because black death is what they honor, and dream of.
They believe they are so, finding in the reflections they receive from the ones they convince of their own brilliance, mirrors reflecting false light, a validation of their own positive energy.
Semite misers, collectors of stones, hoarders of what others create, calling themselves saviors.

In this age all is turned on its head.
War is peace; weakness is strength; cowardice is courage; stupidity is genius, man is woman; positive is negative…
In this time time does not matter.
The idea(l) lies outside of it.
All is inverted…consciousness precedes life, value precedes judgment, beauty is not symmetry, appearance is not relevant, multiplicity is one, diversity is same, need/suffering is the negation of pleasure…

All is relative to the observer, and so he decides.
He is center, god, the subjective that changes the objective at will.
Man does not adapt to world, world adapts to man…this humble, humble man.

Such kindness in their passive aggressive viciousness. [/size]

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[size=115]Upon a pedestal the White ones have climbed, calling out for worshipers, using positive notes, and harmonies, to draw them close…closer, until a crowd gathers at their feet, and they can call them their own.

Detached from the earth they can soar high, dreaming of paradise, and supreme angels, mermaids in their abyss.
Only the highest for one so high.
What is theirs is on another level, because there is no world, no objective standard to destroy their dreams.
Imagination unhindered by the indifferent world turns pure white light- pure fantasy: brilliant, warm, dazzling, heavenly.

And reciting text makes you the ideal.
Now all can be Hellenes. [/size]

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Apollo, The Plague-Sender


The Jane Morris Illiad Cuts

[size=115]I am the Black plague the bringer of misery and death.
I have the reverse Midas: whatever I touch turns to dust; crumbles beneath my fingertips, and whither under the stink of my breathe.
Best you stay away, if pure, and white and clean you wish to stay - if hope is still in you.
Best you stay away if childhood is where you long to be, and day-trips into Hades’ kingdom is still thrilling.

And if you recoil before my cold hands, the chill stays with you, for a long while.
No sun, no fire, no blanket sewn from mother’s apron stings, can make you forget it.
And if you’ve breathed in from my internal rot, blossoms will bloom in your stomach, and little changes will reveal your brush with the dark side.

Have you not, already began quoting my words, and like all dark ones refused to offer gratitude to the one who seeded you?
Have you not shaped your attitude to agree with what made you recoil?

Apollo’s light does, so, burn after prolonged exposure.
Cancerous mutations emerge and grow upon pristine skin, and delicate hide.[/size]

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[size=115]Uprooted, homogenized, processed and pasteurized, the landless ones rise up, over the dirt, to the clouds.
Process released from purpose, finds in masturbation an endless affirmation.
To make love to self, for self, the ultimate turn-on.

When the clouds are reached one forgets about the ground.
All is spirit.
The living forget about the dead.
All is bathed in love, in self-love.

To appreciate self, as if he were an other, unconditionally; to agree with the appreciation one is the product of: to appreciate the universal appreciator.
Shall we rewrite the holy texts?
We need to sell something worn.[/size]

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[size=115]What clever games the positive ones play.
They’ve learned the art of stringing words together, arranged in any order.
Big, impressive sounding words following no logic other than the emotional need to impress to be effective.
Words full of innuendo, insinuating grand things; emotional words, implying, offering, comforting.

The sequence only matters in relation to the desirable effect, the intent.
One word after an other, the before it, then jumbled into one.
Give it a back-beat, a rhythm, in harmony with the heart, and let its effect begin.
Sometimes deep and resonating, making the bones shake, touching you in the most secret places, then trebling, high and fast, making your heartbeat race, swelling veins, hyperventilating, a trance overcoming, hysteria.
The believer is taken by the whirlwind of sensations; words lose meaning, they become notes with their own sound.

String them together, this way, then that.
Backward, forward, sideways, up and down.
Make them dance, make them feel your energy, let their minds settle upon that primal energy, that automatic neurological process, before the cerebral cortex emerges to harness it.
Release the beast, and call it man - the New Man. [/size]

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[size=115]The multi-headed monster is wearing the face of a unicorn; magical, inspiring, mystical.
It’s added a new method to its defensive panoply.

The hero adapts as well.
No longer a hero, but a angel of Darkness, a Black Knight.
You can’t kill this beast one head at a time, you must attack its common ground, its body, its huge, bulging stomach.

the heads appear detached from each other; each with a will of its own: its own teeth, its own tongue, its own eyes.

But follow the head to the neck and then way down, to where it is hiding, the shared stomach, that gaping anus, that vagina.
Orifice upon orifice it is.
In its belly many heroes have been digested.
Pieces cut away, the rest defecated, expelled as noxious fumes. [/size]

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[size=115]Monstrosities of a scale find a common lair.
They seek out warm flesh to devour, to fulfill their emptiness, and if none are present they turn hungry eyes on one another and a new feast begins.
For now they embrace, tails wagging, intertwining in loving gestures.
Fangs are sheathed and nails are retracted.
Puuuuring calms agitations.
They gather on the rock to suck-up the solar heat, like reptiles often do.
They beam with Apollo’s grace, slumbering, having none of their own.
They dream of being heroes, slaying dragons.

But in the night the masks fall, and white no longer shines as bright; all turning into gray.
And the priest, of white, sheds his garments and behold he was neither white not man at all, but a creature entirely not of this world…A Gorgon, and one of three, as three is the number of the beast…

Is (s)he Stheno, Euryale, or the famous Medusa herself?
Her gaze turning fluidity into solid things, substance, immutable atoms.
Will she bear to see herself reflected in the menagerie of her master’s humble robes sparkling with glass he has renamed sapphire?
Will she survive the revelation of her being?
Where there is man and the smell of testicles, there be (s)he sniffing at the crotch, wanting another cock to lead the way.

Harken, brave souls, the White Knight has revealed himself as a Warrior Priest…neither black nor white but ethereal, transparent like a ghost.
Light flows right through him, for he lacks substance of his own.

The glow was not the brilliance of his goodness, but the moonlight reflecting upon his static particles - little glass beads for the natives to gawk at.
He gathers his minions with soothing words of praise, seeing great value in them all - such impeccable judgment, where none is needed, for value precedes it.
He will build a kingdom with such fools “gold” and call himself King.[/size]

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[size=115]In the Universe of oneness, where other is self, and self is other, narcissism loses meaning, love loses meaning, it all becomes self masturbation.
Everywhere the mind looks self emerges, and it loves itself.

Every reflection upon the other is self reflected back.

The schism splits the psyche, the shizoid is now nothing but another image of the one Self.
To exist is to Be that Self.
Identity transported to other.
Madness is the refuge of delicate souls.
Better to be insane than dead.
Schisms protect the brain from the world - a distancing to self-preserve.

The Monster is a shape-shifter, a crafty doppelganger.
Each head protruding from the shared body is a psychological schism which then sees in the other heads a version of itself.
Each head bears a different countenance, adopts a different name, acquires different tastes to feed the shared stomach.
It begins as consciousness of other as food, and then it discovers itself in the other heads, and its new-found self-consciousness slowly develops.
It begins to identity with the all-bonding stomach.

From schism to detachment of self from self.
Identity splits, and then reintegrates with an identity outside itself.
It becomes no more than this Self’s voracious hunger, wanting to devour the world.

What does the Monster know about itself other than its own hunger, and what in the other can gratify it?[/size]

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=wBvfpT5nEQc