Every thought you have ever had
Whether good or bad
Sprung from the recesses of your mind
A deliberating consciousness that is blind.

Every feeling you have ever felt
Was wound tightly with a deterministic belt

Every word you have ever written
Was written with a hand wearing a causal mitten.

Free-will is an illusion and always has been,
However, this is perhaps one elephant in the room
best left unseen.

Dualism is a false philosophy.
We are a causal system,
In a Universe governed by a causal piston.

Libertarian free will is a delusion.
However comforting it may feel to be free,
I had no other option that to write these words,
And be me.

“Man can do what he wills but he cannot will what he wills.”
― Arthur Schopenhauer, Essays and Aphorisms

The abstraction of Love,
The Silent Black Swan,
Interrupted by the White Dove.

In the Depths of the dark forest Swan searched
Far and wide, high and low.
For the reality of love
Only the White Dove could show.

Swan thought he knew all there was to know,
He wandered in solitude, as he watched the canopy grow

And one one particularly dark day,
He heard a soft whisper say,
"Still your thoughts my Love,
fret no more and do not be afraid of the dark,
It is me, Your White Dove"

And the Swan's thoughts stilled.
For a moment his mind no longer tilled.

The Dove drew gracefully near,
And the Swan's fear of solitude
Began to dissapear

Until it was no more

I contemplate the meaning
of what it is to be,
I wrestle with ideas
And focus on the mystery.

The boundless touch,
The deep, swallowing blue eyes
Teach me much
And dispel my melancholic cries

Although life is a mystery,
And probably always will be
Your love is boundless,
yet intensely real to me

And for a moment in time
The mystery is solved
And around the boundless touch
My world eternally revolved

I sway,
between the dark of night,
And the light of day.

I wonder,
During the autumn breeze
And the winter thunder

I feel,
Illusions of joy
The pain that is real

I shout,
The whimper of solitude
As the land does to the drought.

What do I know, but what I do not?

I feel lost,
between the sea of sand

Introspection breeds a loss of hope;
Like the moment that has just passed.
The more I think I know, the less I know;
Destined to fail in more ways than one;
Destined to do the things I know are not fit and well;
To injure those who are in need of a healer;
I will put clothes on my shoulder;
When the starving child next to me has no bread.
I will steal from the poor and give to the rich;
“Is there really anybody out there”?
My soul does not seem to care
But Alas! I am altruistic to the fullest degree
This is my universe, my experience and mine alone.
I, me, this entity that thinks, breathes and reasons;
Is not fit for its purpose;
If indeed there is any at all.

I could call it all a lie;
If I knew the truth;
My outward appearance;
Does not reflect my inner disposition;
A mask for the grand play;
I am just an extra;
To this Wagnerian drama.

I choose to die on my feet;
And not live on my knees.
I choose to die alone;
And not live lonely;
I dance to forget;
Not to remember;

Too blind to see;
Too deaf to hear;
The reaper crawling near.
All hope is gone;
My melancholy rejoices, because it never took that long.