Deletedmemberzc

About Deletedmemberzc

About	Belle-cotillion locusless subatom feeding on dream.
Location	Spinifractic shade of neuronal reticulae. The creak under the stairs.
Posts	2,528
Joined
Last Active
Site Role	Banned
Favourite philosophers	Marcus Aurelius, Sextus Empiricus, Colin Wilson (The New Existentialism)
Favourite quotations	Awake! Awake! O sleeper of the Land of Shadows, wake! William Blake Grant us a heart wide open to all this beauty; And save our souls from being so blind That we pass unseeing When even the common thornbush Is aflame with your glory. Walter Rauschenbusch My God is not Almighty. He struggles, for he is in peril every moment; he trembles and stumbles in every living thing, and he cries out. He is defeated incessantly, but rises again, full of blood and earth, to throw himself into battle once more. He is full of wounds, his eyes are filled with fear and stubbornness, his jawbones and temples are splintered. But he does not surrender, he ascends; he ascends with his feet, with his hands, biting his lips, undaunted. My God is not All-holy. He is full of cruelty and savage justice, and he chooses the best mercilessly. He is without compassion; he does not trouble himself about men or animals; nor does he care for virtues and ideas. He loves all these things for a moment, then smashes them eternally and passes on. He is a power that contains all things, that begets all things. He begets them, loves them, and destroys them. And if we say, "Our God is an erotic wind and shatters all bodies that he may drive on," and if we remember that eros always works through blood and tears, destroying every individual without mercy - then we shall approach his dread face a little closer. My God is not All-knowing. His brain is a tangled skein of light and darkness which he strives to unravel in the labyrinth of the flesh. He stumbles and fumbles. He gropes to the right and turns back; swings to the left and sniffs the air. He struggles above chaos in anguish. Crawling, straining, groping for unnumbered centuries, he feels the muddy coils of his brain being slowly suffused with light. On the surface of his heavy, pitch-black head he begins with an indescribable struggle to create eyes by which to see, ears by which to hear. My God struggles on without certainty. Will he conquer? Will he be conquered? Nothing in the Universe is certain. He flings himself into uncertainty; he gambles all his destiny at every moment. He clings to warm bodies; he has no other bulwark. He shouts for help; he proclaims mobilization throughout the Universe. It is our duty, on hearing his Cry, to run under his flag, to fight by his side, to be lost or to be saved with him. God is imperiled. He is not almighty, that we may cross our hands, waiting for certain victory. He is not all-holy, that we may wait trustingly for him to pity and to save us. Within the province of our ephemeral flesh all of God is imperiled. He cannot be saved unless we save him with our own struggles; nor can we be saved unless he is saved. We are one. From the blind worm in the depths of the ocean to the endless arena of the Galaxy, only one person struggles and is imperiled: You. And within your small and earthen breast only one thing struggles and is imperiled: the Universe. The Saviors of God Nikos Kazantzakis

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