#immaterial
"But what of these truths?" Asked Plato of Socrates.
"But what is truth in purest essence?
For what of the material is purely true?
Yet, by the very nature of the immaterial,
What may we ever quantifiably call truth which we ourselves have no alternative way of examining?
In going so far as to ask for an answer, you must already have proof.
What proof is there that there is truth?"
Spoke Socrates.
"Mentor, you ramble."
Spoke Plato.
"Pupil, I rumble!"
Spoke Socrates.
Apr 16, 2025
Apr 16, 2025 at 12:11 AM UTC
Never forget being a human..
Most times in the quest and dedication of things brought about by imagination we forget the art of being human, it will be too great a catastrophe to loose humanity completely...
Stagnation is the primal curse..
Stagnation can be confused.
Not moving is stagnation, which is bad..
But..
Moving in one direction,
disregarding other aspect is stagnation.
Excessive obsession is worst.
Not looking back is terrible..
Not looking forward is detrimental..
Not in the present is dilutions..
In this Sense focus is misappropriated...
Everything is dilutional except the art of being human..
Humanity... Is
Consideration..
Accommodation..
Moderation..
Adaptation.
Reproduction..
Transpiration.
Respiration.
Transformation..
Aspiration..
Imagination.
So on the list travels into the desert of words unsaid...
Disregarding any of these is inhumane..
Excessive obsession on any of these is inhumane..
Countless bygone civilization of ages dissipates into the abyss of inhumane and never returned..
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 8:50 AM UTC
This idea
is so distorted,
transfixed,
to mark our bodies
as shame
or lack of respect
when in their maternal
******
that rags
they wear
ornate us
and dictate
what our respect
is
when it is completely on
the contrary
and such rules
made by society
are claimed to be of God.
Our nature and self-confidence
of it
(can)
make even the most
shaggy rags radiant
and worth of envy.
As if coming to meet Them
purely from your own
will so eager no matter
if you’re even
just
in
a
towel
didn’t count as a great
act of devotion.
That ****** is illegal,
that beaches where you can be
non-clad are
only for the “major” persons
(because underage ones
are supposedly
not
in their right mind),
and as Dante Quintana,
my eponym,
noticed truly:
how shoes
are unnatural
and how not wearing them
is not
a sign of poverty
or lousiness.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 1:59 PM UTC
Waiting at the crossroad,
I’ve met countless travelers.
Shaking my head from disappointment,
They could not answer my question.
— What is a rock?
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 8:07 PM UTC
Words are unstoppable
Words may be spoken
Words may be written
Words may be thought
Night falls over the day
Night falls over the block
Night falls over the hood
Night falls over us
First as the dusk
Then as the stars
We can see nothing
Street corners light
Streetlight too bright
We can see nothing
Too bright but never enough.
We can see nothing of hope in the cosmos
We carry our blinded eyes in our hands
Buy me a knife.
Buy me a gun.
Find me behind the barrel,
I'd rather be first in line,
I will secure first place.
Buy me a knife.
Buy me a gun.
Find me shaking the iron sights,
I'd rather be running away from the system,
I will do what I must.
Take our education, expect us to grow.
Take our nutrition, expect we maintain.
The gatekeeper looks less like St. Peter
Than it looks like a bank.
Make it for money,
Expect we be happy
For the physical.
Make it vanity,
Expect our diminished state
Be aspiration and dream enough.
Words are unstoppable,
I know this to be true.
Where are the words
We need the most?
We cry for each other in night,
Each broken compatriot
Each potential confidant
Convinced we're abandoned
Convinced we're at war with the poor
Then at war with ourselves
Expending bullets for the clout on the shelf.
I am in here just as you so put that down.
I am in you, and I need your words to tell,
To touch, to show,
Those with nothing know what more there is than this.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 5:24 PM UTC
I was a mosaic collected
in scratched nails
imbedded, bleeding
like I was meant to be touched
but can you really grasp a reflection..
How could you identify what
I see, within the fallen feathers
of a crows smiles.
I'm hidden within,
a pile of dead bones wishing to fly again.
I could walk within the footsteps of those
in front of me on calm sands.
But I choose to run on
a beach of shattered shells, this is life!
broken dreams never really washing away.
I see smiles kept aloft by matchsticks,
ready to ignite.
Within there embers embracing the true
reflection of how I see others.
Parched realties of never really loving you
or another for the failures of there integrity.
I could love,
in blindness.
But what is seen is nothingness..
I could love,
in thought.
But memories will always lie to oneself.
I could have love,
in myself.
But nothing ever comes from that..
Until I realize that I'm not in control
of this collage of moments.
I'm a Paper-Mache,
randomly collecting on a frame work
of contemplation, that I will only
see on the completion of my life.
I'm but a part that I thought was
irrelevant, immaterial.
But I'm just a piece of life collecting on
the shattered shells slowly reforming to
realize there is more to life than sandy shores.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC