(or a bunch of questions you may feel the need to ask)
This morning it was terribly sunny. I forgot my sunglasses but did not want to climb back up my stairs again. I spent the days indoors, seeing the weather change through the hazy fog of textured glass. It seemed gloomy, but when I ventured out again it was sunny as before. The chilly temperature was eluding me. I can't believe I left it fool me that way.
A cruel sort, but they have capacities beyond all reason. They can create the world with their hands. It is incredible. I watched as the man lead brushes across canvas, his hand twisting and convulsing in its own neurotic shiver. the drippings were nothing when I looked again at the canvas, but seeing his face on film made it all apparent, real. He was no longer a string of black paint dancing on a dirty white surface, now he was real. He was made alive. His hands were powerful. He had primeval substances in his skull. Maybe that's why he lost his mind.
And all those classics, what a bunch.
reading Socrates is like a warm hand on your belly. As ignorant as you are, he said, you can still find Truth whereever you seek it, for a life unexamined is as useless as eyes which cannot see. You'll find it if you give it time and question. Always question. Answers are where truth hides.
Reading Plato is cruelty infested on the brain. He tells me men are a hopeless lot, let them all fall under one who may teach them Truth. I asked him what that meant. He told me I could only see shadows, but my soul knew the place where it dwelled. I had merely to look.
Reading Aristotle is a burn licking your hand, hot and heavy. Yes, there is truth to be sure, he said, and I have found it. In the world I see. I only seek the mechanics behind it for I do not expect to find any god simply popping out of just any machine. He's oiled it well. It's all clockwork really. That's it, that's all, but there still time to seek.
I looked to the sculptors for Truth and they gave only their withered bone hands. The children of these white hands became amorphous, their noses crumbled from their faces as though infected with leprosy. They said nothing, only cracks and whispers...