creative life poetry

A collection of many disorganized thoughts: on the improvisatory life of a unicorn

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Dust and fog; death and misfortune.

The gloomy crows fly through the land of darkness and seat themselves next to an intellectual isolated from the world.

Facial obstruction has resulted from this wearisome solitude, and her identity has thus been lost.

But at last, the angelic birds arrive and harmonically sing:

You fool, your life resides at one station.

No change; no growth; no motion.

No distractions; no interactions; no emotion.

No obstacles; no suffering; no waves in this ocean.

Death to you, intellectualism, and isolation.

Now, she is dead and ready to be born again. And this time, infatuations will not destroy her mind; they will strengthen it. Her life will be improvised: pathed by distractions; motivated by the arts; and understood by knowledge.

She will live the good life.

When man began to fly, some piloted, but most became passengers; when man began to practice music, some composed, but most became performers; when man began to do, some did, but most became dreamers.

He faces a great danger as a master prepares to enslave him—a master by the name of Dogma. Did evolution deny him? How does he label himself as an advanced primate when he is a mere monkey imitating a master?

His greatest flaw is what he considers to be his greatest strength: thoughts. Thinking is a process in which he recollects the events of his past and further refers to the evolutionary baggage common to all men. He is therefore sacrificing originality; he is sacrificing creativity; he is sacrificing art. When he serves the future, he is but a slave of the past.

All of his thoughts about the future are prejudiced. When he thinks and sets long-term goals, his plans—which are truly foolish dreams—reflect on experiences he or others have had already. His growth is limited, and change is inhibited. He thinks there to be static goodness, and his life is thereby similar to the dogmatic (or indoctrinated) idiots he so passionately despises.

He endeavours to reach the top of a mountain. But if he surrenders his compass and abandons the pilgrimage, he can reach the top of the heavens. The direction of each step is to be chosen as he lifts his foot to take it, and the path must otherwise be improvised. He needs to remember that things do not go wrong; they simply follow unexpected directions which can in fact impregnate the imaginative mind with genius. And during his journey, when he is despaired and in pain, a demon may whisper into his ears and offer him a chance to go back in time; to leave behind that which he regrets the most; to correct his wrongs. He should wrestle this fiend to the ground and refuse to ever look back.

He must use the arts as his inspiration for improvisation; he must solely pursue his individualization; he must be the wildest crawler amongst the wild things and live the good life of a unicorn.

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