"Lest We Forget" Truth

Farther, and farther I am stretching and hurting my brain, hoping that my hand will begin to write subconsciously. I have obtained probable cause that I have gone insane since I have attempted this method more than once; each time thinking in my head, "This could be it! I might discover myself and all of my potential!" Who else am I kidding but myself? I am so plainly and obviously not of that kind, to write spur of the moment some master piece after having played an hour long game of tonsil hockey with the muse of literature. How unqualified I am that I do not even know her name! In short, all that I am is a middle class citizen, with a desire for knowledge, falling short of obtaining most of it. I really have no right to be great in any sense of the term. "Oh, but I have written a poem with my heart!" Says I.

Verily, unto say,
I've begotten a miserly play!

Quick, ask me why I think Shakespeare is good. "Because", I continue, "He wrote with his soul." As if William Shakespeare's soul was prone to produce good things. Shakespeare was a genius of poetry just as engineers are geniuses in mathematics. He knew exactly how to write, and did not treat each of his works as if it were his only child. I would consider Shakespeare having sold out when he wrote A Midsummer Nights Dream. Though I am sure he took pride in his plays, but after some time he could not have been proud of Titus Andronicus.

'I'll speak no more but "Vengeance rot you all!"'

So, what did Shakespeare do at which I failed myself? Was it his ambition that made him succeed? But "noble" Evan Gunn says, "I am ambitious, and see where that has gotten me." Shakespeare knew his equations just as Pascal knew his, and I sit here suggesting that I am allowed to write whatever I want. Well, I suppose freedom of the will would grant me that privilege, but I dare not say that my jumbled mess of words qualify as literature, or God forbid good literature.

So what have I left myself with? I cannot write well because I have not learned the appropriate equations. What have I left the rest of the world with? The objective truth (that is objectivism) has slowly crept its way to reside as an elephant in the corner of the room that is my brain. It sits there not saying anything while making uncomfortable faces that by themselves cannot be ignored. It would be a sorry sight to have the elephant start speaking out to the world to remind it of the fallacies it makes. Oh, the heartbreak the world would have to choose between classical music and rap music for which one is better. If that day comes there will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth. Luckily, this elephant is soft spoken, but it is still an elephant.

What has relativism done for me personally? It has given me countless open doors that could potentially lead to success. What does it take away? It removes my understanding of art and proceeds to relieve me of my claim to knowing greatness or ever knowing what greatness is. If art is relative it turns its followers into idle bohemians afraid of truth. Being told that your poem was undoubtedly, poorly written is such a painful experience; and so rather we claim no absolute truth about poetry, which frees us up to stand pigeon toed at a precipice shouting in tones of weasely ignorance that our poem was good. Soon after our misguided declarations we fail to search for that which really is absolutely true, because Heaven forbid we make anyone (me) feel bad. We will only continue to dig ourselves deeper into ruts of the mind only creating tripe at the bottom since we have made no effort to improve. "But this is my signature writing style, that no one should change." I say while stamping my foot and pointing my pudgy finger at the accuser. This is childish thinking spurred by a mother or an admiring aunt fawning when you played Heart and Soul. Are you so sure that your style of writing even falls under the definition of poetry/literature? Is this not why we go to school to be taught correct definitions to our world. When a teacher marks you down do you relatively object and say, "I thought it was the right answer!" The world will cut you no slack just because you think you are great.

We must at least reach a definition for all forms of art. As with music I claim that the shreiking tones of howler monkeys is the best form of music, I am almost automatically proven wrong, because of the agreed upon definition of music. Howler monkeys do not agree with the definition. If you think it does you become unable to communicate with others; forcing yourself into musical loneliness.

Have I gone to far yet? You may have ventured on your own train of thought by now and may be realizing the faults you have made in your truth claims. "There is no absolute truth!" says you with an absolute claim of truth. So, there is absolute truth; then where does it come from? Does absolute truth come from the insane? It kind of sounds like the Greek myth of the prophetess Cassandra who was always right but no one would ever listen to her. How do we know that the next homeless person we see shouting that "the end is nigh" isn't right. This may seem a bit shallow, but it is required that the homeless person bring some evidence or proof to the table. That is why we never take a conspiracy theorist seriously. Otherwise it is in our nature to believe that the pattern we have been living will continue on forever and ever, amen. Besides, that would be a most cruel and undesirable existence. why would it be such a way?

On that note, why would we call that cruel in the first place? It so clearly disagrees with any ethical code that any sane person abides with. Though, it cannot be cruel because you said so or even if the majority said so. A majority of Germany agreed with Hitler. It appears that we need an authority to tell us what is virtuous, morally acceptable and ethical. A judgment must be passed for anyone to make claims about ethics or even the small things like beauty, writing or music. I myself would suggest that you go find someone to be your judge or hold yourself as the infallible truth bearer.

Where was I going with this? Oh, I recall that I am not the source of all poetical knowledge. After all I did not invent poetry.