there is no god, the heavens are frighteningly empty, deaf and oblivious. prayers are naught but the air-clawing of a desperate man. we are all alone by ourselves. everything begins in and ends with us
well then. witness the rise of the utilitarian realist, the empirical here-and-now person, the astute, insidious Machiavellian serpent, masterfully switching in between masks in accordance to circumstance. if the gods do not care, then strength can only come from the self, then well then, let it come; let it come like a torrential outburst of a storm; let it come relentlessly at its full magnitude; let it come and let it be feared and awed. let it come with a frustrated vengeance
theres still respect for the moral teachings of Confucius and Buddhism; but its stops there at the morality level. for its a dog eat dog world out there; and dog is the reversal of god.
come on, now
| Thoughts Became Words At 10:31 PM |
i hate taking the train during rush hour. the mad rush is bad enough, but of course there are always those champions and prizefighters of the lot to enhance the experience of a nasal-flaring, intercostal muscle-retracting, cyanosis-inducing near-death suffocation in a train
seriously, it amazes me how some people can still be alive when their irritant level is so lofty a stage. there are those people who feel so unstable in a moving train totally PACKED with people with bare inches to move, that they still feel the need to grab hold of the handrail/pole thing. behold the dhalsim arm, that bends and snakes its way like silly-putty through the throng of people! the relentless, all-defying, steely-willpower monster of an arm, that braves the enemy throngs and reaches the ultimate grail of a handrail. no matter the guy whose head is tilted sideways to allow the reach of the arm; pity the poor, tired, stressed khakipants-donning chinese high boy beneath the armpit, having his warped newton moment when all the golden apples of putrid odor are raining forth from the magic sweaty tree
rush hour also displays mankind's worst breeds ever. witness this Filipino woman, staring perplexedly and irritably at the dark wall of the tunnel after the train has just pulled into city hall station. sure, the doors open the other side after raffles place, but surely she can feel the people thronging in and out of the door behind her, definitely she can hear the usual rantings on the station PA system? no, indeed, she continues her futile, increasingly furious stare at the dark side of the train, occasionally gazing at the people beside her, as if rallying their united displeasure at why the doors have not opened to grant her her alighting. she continues until the doors have closed and the train HAS started moving, before it FINALLY dawns upon her that the station was just behind her. behold, highlight, climax, pinnacle, zenith, apogee, maximum parabolic point! there and then she starts to panic, and squeezes and pushes her way through the crowd OPPOSITE TO THE DIRECTION OF THE TRAIN MOVEMENT, like she can somehow run back to the station when the train is already pulling out of the station at great speed.
seriously, this proves that there can never be a god, for if a god can create people so stupid, a god that knows of this level of stupidity cannot possibly be all that clever after all. it does take skill to be THAT stupid.
there are also ones who simply adore last-minute rushes to the train doors. they just love the adrenaline surge when the system announces that the doors are closing, and they thus have a few scant moments to make it out of the train by the skin of their yellow teeth. no, they were not asleep or listening to music; they were not even staring at the boobs of the tired bosomy office lady carrying her fake gucci bag; no, they were just one of those time-wasters you see on a train that just do nothing at all during the ride. but alas, they just love the last minute mad rush off the train, the orgasmic sensation of friction of flesh against flesh aka NSF phuture groping, except this is done at lightning speed and much more greater impulse Impulse = F.s
lastly, there is the dreaded breather-down of necks, literally. yes, the train is packed, but there is still space to rotate the head about the axis that is the neck such that the bearing of the nasal aerial discharge does not intercept the neck of the person before you and subject him to erotic nasal aerial ventilation. but wait, upon gaining 45000 exp points the neck-breather evolves into the penisman. nothing against them , but usually the penis man is of the construction worker class, the brick and mortar proletariat. he without qualms shoves his bulge against your quivering behind, and his bulge is exceptionally too huge and hard for the time and place. yes i know my buttocks are tender and virgin, but the cramped, sweaty, after-work train is no place to have anal sex with a tired 20-year old officewear-clad guy
| Thoughts Became Words At 10:12 PM |
