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John R. Mynros
4,349 followers -
Age quod agis
Age quod agis

4,349 followers
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The Violence of Freedom

The consensuses governing the essence of all freedoms require concessions that necessitate limitations; this is not a paradox, but a critical requirement to prevent the growing confusion between liberty and profligacy. Morality isn't the sole province of humanity alone, and the providence of any perceived free will can't invariably approve independence due to the consequence of increasing restraints. Free will is an artifice that requires the totality of everyone's participation and a morality that justifies the dilemma of opposing moralities. The strictures of contemporary society limits free will to permitting the very thing it's trying to honour, but the activity of human behaviour sanction the obligations of force, in an inherent state, to protect, to defend, and to enforce: this is not freedom but a facsimile of privilege called democracy. True free will and the freedom that permits the effects of autonomy cannot live in a society populated with varying moralities. Indeed, people may possess the freedoms of choice, belief, and lifestyle; however, due to the intrinsic variations of human appearance and conduct, free will produces prejudice and bias: no current ideology exonerates and emancipates using absolute objectivity. Until a complete ideological morality encompasses such diversity without force, the only freedom humans have right now is the freedom to be human and nothing else.
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Life and After
It is a remarkable thing to read and hear about people's conceptual thoughts on an afterlife: not the belief, but the construct itself. Despite the remedial corporeal projectionist thinking, being in any one single state of being would be, inevitably, stupefyingly dull, and yet, the reductive variety of occupation seems to act as some sort of wish fulfilment which, if true, seems extraordinarily monotonous given eternity. Surely there must be more to an afterlife than it being a corporeal reflection of cheerful physical existence. Of course, the argument that no one will know for sure until they die is the typical response, although it still promotes a degree of counterintuitive reasoning and ambiguity in light of the general concept itself having been around for thousands of years. Those answers, if one can call them that, seem more in keeping with the type of answers parents provide small children to avoid confusion. I am not a child, but I do wonder if it is a lack of meaningful imagination, or a lack of existential comprehension that preclude clarification. The significance of which being, as a person's knowledge, experience, and intellectual capacities increase, the conceptual notion of the afterlife remains, at best, inconsistent, at worst, wholly contradictory given the plethora of belief systems. Indeed, despite the entire sphere of theological thinking, there remains no one single narrative, independent of dogma, that describes the purpose of such a system in the first place. Most are content to dismiss the question itself as a matter of wait-and-see-belief, that's their prerogative, but the obvious remains, and that makes me wonder if people really want the truth or just a form of solace that offers validation to continue living the way they do because it justifies their choices, behaviour, character, and deeds.
#life #death #afterlife #reincarnation #faith '#belief
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The trivialities of pain often provide reflection: mirrored eyes, such inventions and contraptions of poignancy burning in memories. A savage refrain dwells in hesitations forsaken. Repentance's fiery moments blossom not for regret but for the ghost of death. We can't know, except, we all do, for that is life's enduring final gift.
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The senses of form, the qualities of perception, the freedoms of limits, the precincts of mind, the harmonies of pain, the fears of calm, the stillness, the moment, the aspect, and the profound all provoke and appease in the unity of what seem as candles in the night. Unchained regard and majestic reverence of knowing suffer no division, yet, as such things must, that most vaunted promise severs the partitions of benighted ideation and sovereign betterment. Beckoning without despair, wrought in ingenuity and imagination—these, the origins of conscience—and the essence of incorporeal things, dwell without adversity. Regrettably, and yet with a degree of abject purpose, privation's shade and physicality's trammels foster the habitudes of trivialities, prejudice, and blame; otherwise, in the absence of ordeal, hardship deprives potential and the indispensable significance every monstrosity and beauty enables in a chance to learn the rarity of true wisdom—a truth given grants no insight. Indeed, the commonality of abrasions addresses the tarnished silver of morality, but without purpose, the vanity of ego usurps dedication. The lack of such capacities is shameful for we are, each of us, flames in a fire intended to be stars together, not solitary flickers easily quenched. Oneness in the night counters the horrors of every personal and collective history; it is inescapable and terrible, though a laudable act to confront all such mistakes. A war is not coming; it is already here: a conflict fought not in foreign lands, but on the streets and within the mind The struggle claws at the conscience, however, while forged in the fire and sky, and in the very essence of abstract creations, this rebellion must endure the decorated champions feigning loyalty as they attempt the restoration of enslavement and the dismantling of freedoms—but, only for a while. The braying trumpets already blast their rage against the façades and affectations of valiant intent; the embodiment of ersatz nobleness falls into malignant vagaries and ambiguities: indistinct shadows of unrealised harm threaten the cosmology of individuality, normality, and that most sacred edifice of civilisation. Until the sun sets on liberty, the choice belongs to all, and all have the authority to combat the tyranny of the few.
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Sight is merely a form of sensory stimulation; what we think we see only exists in the mind. There is no such thing as darkness, just the absence of energy; without imagination, we are blind.
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Consciousness through evolution and the evolution of consciousness—this incarnate masquerade—decided the future of the past and is changing the future of the present; now, while the masses remain absorbed by the singularity, too few are waking up to the authenticity of this horizon, this consequence of unending purpose, and this causality of transient imitation. Which direction is your shadow falling?
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Emotional and intellectual malnutrition is on the rise because too many people have turned to a diet rich in media heavy manipulation, which is causing the upsurge in ego obesity and coronary prejudice.
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I recline and relax: confident in what I know, knowing how little I know and how much more there is to know.
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Past and present and future moments of reflection, to linger in the minds of others, to wax and wane, yet never the same in slow creation, or gentle annihilation. To defy and cry, persist and resist, smiling and resting while moments ebb and flow away. Brushed by days and shaped by years, formed and fashioned by a rainbow of tears. To know and have ignored, while time beckons its sad reward. Sculpted nuances amidst a confetti of reflected emotion, while time authenticates the common theme of all redemption. To close the eyes and whisper away, and in the end drift away. Memories and moments pass on like breaths of air inhaled by strangers, becoming us until time undoes all that's left behind in the boundless blackness of endless promise; in the end all hellos are just slow-motion goodbyes embroidered with chance and possibilities to begin again. The musings of Fates and all that might be cannot start until an end is embraced. Porcelain moments dwell in the mind in such perfect stillness, awaiting not discovery but recognition where the darkness can never exist until you look and see and realise: you are perfect despite your flaws.
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As a sledgehammer wrapped in silk, this thought strikes with a soft thunderbolt of comfortable pain. I watched the sun rise, saw a face in the clouds, remembering, just thinking. I watched the stars fade, like memories in the shade, I've learned how not to miss things and embrace the empty spaces that now precedes them. In this stillness, in this moment, the sky reminds me of things I've yet to learn.
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