Many pages have been ripped out of philosophical notebooks because words may have a difficult occupation expressing a philosopher’s thoughts. Perhaps the exploration of the facets surrounding a philosopher’s problem has led to the conclusion that the problem is not putting philosophy into words effectively, as it is simply writing words down to begin with. It is with no greater agony than is possible for a person to write down philosophy, however, because by doing so the very motion means the philosophy is real. Before that point it could have been passing thoughts, incomplete images, ideas and notions, but after the act it is a reality. Ink to paper. Thought to words.

Philosophy may not be an acceptable term in the dawn of the twenty-first century, wherein politics are game shows and emotions are constructed. One who claims to write philosophy are often construed as insane. Insanity, however is overplayed and overrated. It is a judgment applied to difference. We, socially, cannot understand what we do not know and so squelch it, stamp it as a problem and treat it with mind-erasing drugs. Philosophy is not insanity.

It has been a tiring day. The night fell hours ago and I am still writing thoughts. They are not written for therapy, but for clarity. It is important that my journey is chronicled. I can begin at the beginning, the end and at no place at all. Events make me, not the order of the events. Sequence is a third dimensional concept. It is important that third dimensional concepts are not confused for reality. I will take events as they come. Compile them into a sensible medium. A rite of passage. A walk. An initiation.

But now I am another spoke in the wheel of The Way Things Are, doing my part as it rotates its way through theoretical history. I am the student of Reality. The harbinger of society. The observer of dimensions. The architect of paths. The haven of the lost. The vanguard of humility. The contradiction within life. The time between lives. The space around the mind. The volume of the soul. The air behind voice. The impulse behind action. The time that measures time. The void surrounding substance.

I have wondered through the city when the earth has rotated enough for the sun to turn off its power on the west side of the planet. In a car, or otherwise. When most are asleep. I have seen few out. The nocturnal. The subculture. Driving casually, looking for authorities. They smoke cigarettes or they don’t. They drive or they walk. They are female or they’re not. They have two dollars or five thousand. They are drunk, they are sober. It is 2006 and 1932. These creatures of the night have destinations. Far and close. They have lives. Full and empty. They have fears. Real and unjustified. They have the city.

It is dark no matter how many lights are on. Reflections from the asphalt reveal forms familiar and unknown. It is a society of sleepers. These people are all at once unexposed. Perhaps free. There is no meaning behind flashing stoplights. They are free to stop or go. No sales pitches are being made. No rush to arrive anywhere. No desire to see the sunrise. This is when the city is most alive. This is when they see the clearest. Facades are unnecessary. Image is nothing. It is me. Alone in a car with a choice of music. Buildings pass discretely. It is motionless, no matter the indications of the speedometer. It is quiet, no matter the decibels of the radio. It is awake, no matter the hour.

It is at night, in the city, when thoughts occur. Thoughts of societies, secret societies. Their relationships. What is to come.

These are the hours when it is necessary to be.

As the sun rises, the magic passes. Science is awake. The social dance begins. Image is turned on. The walkers go to work and the sleepers go to bed. Money is earned and dreams are dreamt. Lunches served. Questions answered. It is a rush now and the city is dark in the daytime. Humans act as cattle and insanity dies. This is when magic sleeps and when the mystic needs to be awake.

Exchange. Walk. Talk. Breathe. Run. Never whistle … they’ll know who you are. Nod. Buy a paper. Vote. Eat breakfast. Make a phone call. Sell. Serve. Consume. Purchase. Neglect. Reject. Honk. Chat. Prioritize. Decide. Learn. Take a break. Learn. Shovel. Set up. Clean. Eat. Rest. Walk. Watch. Ignore. Read. Listen. Nap. But always be awake.

And as the double yellow line escapes from under me weaving its way through nightened asphalt, I think. And thought is heightened by the night. I remember. I put together the pieces in this huge puzzle of cosmology.

Remembering last night in the poorly lit restaurant, that strange man who leaned over and said snidely, “It sucks drinking coffee by yourself.”

And thus started an engagement, mysteriously choreographed to strike notes on thoughts I had been saving. We talk of conspiracies, of games, of the eye in the pyramid. Knowledge is gained and we go our separate ways into the film noir.

We gather these things and remember them. Why was the gentlemen placed so lubricantly into my coffee hour? Why did he touch on subjects I’d spent lifetimes pondering? Answers only lead to more questions.

I am a student. I train to know. Every step towards knowledge results in magic. It is not for health or protection. It is much more. It is everything. It is nothing. It is neutrality. It opposes itself. To make a declaration of learning is to admit one is nothing but clueless. To admit one knows nothing. To admit one’s very philosophy and behavior are contradictory and furthermore to admit that the only true faith is to have none. It is natural to be paranoid. To question even the faiths that have led to perfection over a lifetime. To philosophize over philosophy and religionize over religion.

Our governments figured out a long time ago, perhaps before their birth, that religion and faith offer a blinding directional cure in front of the eyes of man. This blindness is comfortable. Freedom of religion is a reinforcement of a comfort zone we feel we need. It is cultural for us to believe in something. But our governments knew that all of it was nothing more than facades we ourselves created. Why hamper it? It is necessary for us to feel safe. They knew better.

We are being guided by illuminated ones. It is not necessary to construct a belief system. Fact is always behind fiction. It is irrelevant whether or not people think what they believe is fact or truth, because it does not change nor affect what is really truth. We, as social creatures, constantly search for truth and in many different times in our lives, believe that we have found it.

The truth is, there is no truth.

--Laveaux 22:17, 29 May 2007 (UTC)

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