philosofungi
Charley’s Agnosthesia
Charlotte Starr Lewis || obsessed with saxophones, fig whisky & pretty words
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Absolutely insane lines to just drop in the middle of an academic text btw. Feeling so normal about this.
[ A Critical History of English Literature, Vol. 1, Prof. David Daiches, first published in 1960 ]
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hold me, darling
your fingers tenderly traced
small constellations across my arms
as i rested my weary, weary head
in the crook of your neck,
breathe, breathe, breathing in
your scent, savor the feel of
the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest
like tea, sunlight, and all things warm and
a blanket, a roof, and all things safe;
i am wholly vulnerable,
but never more tethered, grounded as
i drink in your presence
clinging to every golden thread of you
in you, always, you who
kiss away my tears.
is this love? it must be.
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What Might Have Been
within the clandestine depths
of her unassuming mind
lurks a cornucopia of
life, images, thought.
the otherworldly Delusions of an "average" girl
living an "average" life
all intermingling,
ever-growing,
until! in some moments of melancholy, wanderlust, imagination:
a solitary wisp curls out,
overcoming the average girl with
a flood of overwhelming romanticism,
a desire for the Other.
within the clandestine depths
of her unassuming mind
there are the multiverses
of the hypothetical.
the paths never taken and the choices never made and the feelings never acted upon,
all branching out from the numerous
little what-if roots, creating
alternate realities amplified by the
resonant! voices in her head.
what voices? those of her
conjectural doppelgängers;
those that she might've, could've, would've,
but never have been;
those that scream into the Abyss
hoping to be heard during
the lonely hours
on the cusp of—
dawn.
the grass you never tread on is always greener, after all.
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On the Cusp of Existence, I Wonder
I screamed into the void, asking
And the universe: a blank, uncaring reach of time
Said nothing,
Likewise to the millions before me.
Science says I am a product of miosis
That I rose from a sea of amino acids
Pooled on a speck of cosmic dust
A testament to natural selection
Embedded in 1.618, golden, evolved, biochemically
Structured, predictable, meticulous.
Matter and time is all that there is
I exist, c'est tout, and all is blankness,
A canvas where I hold the paints, nihilist
A living amalgamation of fossilised experiences
That ceases being in totality the moment
of the cessation of my heart. Reality resumes.
Or are we suspended in Milton’s mass of Chaos,
Plato's shadows on the wall of a cave?
Bearing such eschatology, will I be
Trapped in an Inferno or a Kafkaesque limbo?
Are we projections in an absurd, brutalist matrix
In blind conformity to pre-coded proclivities? So,
Maybe I am bound by an all-encompassing Fate,
As the Greek tragedians pen of a dismal Oedipus
Forever confined to a future predestined
As a Raskolnikov or a Napoleon
Shaped by the snipping, cutting, and measuring of
Mystic thread. Pawns in an arbitrary, celestial design.
And whether reality is a construct of matter or fate
How should we then live? Tethering our existence to
Some unyielding, abstract, ethical decree?
Grasping for some order, some de jure legitimacy
Knowing that behind Manichean depths of conscience lies
Promises of an elusive truth. Provided it exists.
Do all roads lead to heaven?
Contradictions cannot co-exist, and I too
Am paradoxical: spiritually anorexic,
Starved yet repelled by nourishment, if
you could even call it that—
Struggling for a shard of autonomy.
It's teetering on the edge of a cliff
With a dizzying sense of vertigo
You fly when you believe, they say
Take a
leap
of
faith. But I am afraid to
plummet.
So I stand there, with scraped knees
And unanswered pleas simply
Looking down
On the cusp of existence, I wonder.
—Charlotte Starr
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@academia-lucifer
I'm looking forward to December because this is the most beautiful time of the year, aesthetically speaking. I hate to say this, but thanks for creating Christmas capitalism :'(
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Inner Light: Phase 3
Digital art
2023
(Lic.: CC BY-NC-ND 3.0)
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Afternoons at Angelo
Time passing slowly in my quaint café
in strolls a Western man with purpose clear,
retrieving a lost Orwell, treasure dear,
crowned in silver but wisdom not yet old,
fancy jacket paired with cheap sandals, green,
sat straight on the soft, suede sofa, stilled—
the solitude, a coffee shop's small thrill
to a lone traveler in this bustling scene.
Does family await far away, I wonder,
and what brought him here today? And is he
a runway artist, an esteemed scholar,
or all at once, perhaps? A mystery to be.
For we're background roles in stories adorned,
coexisting, lives entwined, narratives born.
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The expectations of others often become self-fulfilling prophecies. Without realizing it, we often behave in ways that confirm the beliefs others have about us. Those subjective beliefs create new realities for us. We often become who other people think we are, in their eyes and in our behavior.
Philip G. Zimbardo, Understanding How Good People Turn Evil
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What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.
— J.D. Salinger. (via. luciferifilia)
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