*image by Ben Harubin

 

Arkaus And Reflo:
A Needed Myth -- Heretofore Unavailable:

Before the time of the Titans, in an area beyond the Elysian Plain, lived a man, Arkaus,
who had a talking head he called by the name of Reflo, and many people came to view the
head and ask it questions in that it had areputation for great wisdom.
Something that became clear was that Reflo would not speak if Arkaus was not present;
no one could ever see any physical connection or trickery involved between the man
and the talking head, yet it was in inescapable fact that if he was not there the head was silent.
From this myth emerged the reality of man's current condition of consciousness, with those
seeking liberation doing all they can, privately and individually, to overturn this tale.

Those who await useful results from knowledge are as children, not only pretending
there is water in an empty pail, but who expect to catch fish therein.
(Treating the imaginary with respect but adds to it.)

A man went to a doctor and said, "I think I have a virus in my brain – what d'ya think?"
And the physician replied, "Yes indeed, if you think, you do."
And after a few seconds pause the man asked, "Did you mean 'yes indeed, if I think I do, I do'
or 'yes indeed, if you "think" then you perforce to?'"
And after a few seconds pause the doctor replied, "Huh?"

Almost every disease on this planet in some manner ultimately diagnoses itself -- save for one.
Mirrors are never aware, should they be suffering from mercury poisoning.

To reach hormonal maturity in an acceptable fashion within your genetic community
is to be "ordinary" by collective definition, and to be so ordinary is to be also "satisfied"
in a certain manner; those in this sort of activity never realize this state of satisfaction and
indeed have taken up the pursuit of some lesser-known, individual version, seemingly
apparent and important only to them.

No complaints are heard from a graveyard, even one where flowers grow...which still,
to a few, provides no proof that the consciousness of zombies is the ultimate mortal bench mark.

 

Everyone's born to a normal, hundred-mile journey, and for the first forty
you dream of what's up ahead, after that your thoughts turn to what you've
already passed, but with either instance, for those determined to "go somewhere"
unique and exciting, it's all hormonal bullshit -- predictable,
yet trampleable under super-fast neural foot.

The true and correct name of all stupidity, futility, and mistaken direction
is redundancy.

Don't curse sleep, the dark, or captivity, but mere redundancy.
For there, if you have one, is your foe and anathema.