The Death of Virtue: Part 1

His ears were ringing. No, they were burning. All he could hear was a sharp, popping noise. His ears felt like he was in the ocean, water pressure pushing on every micrometer of his eardrums, and coral was all he could hear.

He was staring at the carpeted staircase, but he couldn’t see anything. Somehow the fog had crept its way into his living room.

His hands were heavy, and too far away. His blood felt diluted and sluggish. His heart was an un-oiled engine, with every pump more difficult and more damaging than the last.

He hadn’t felt like this since the car crash.

Slowly, the ringing gave way to something else. A soft, but growing noise that hurt as it built upon itself. Reality was ripping its way back into his conscious. The noise culminated in a painful crescendo as he became aware of holding the phone to his ear again. Her words were like audible lightning, and her usually sweet voice seared as it left the clammy, black receiver.

“Peter? Peter did you hear me? Are you still there?” Earth regained its axis; gravity kicked back in; and oxygen flooded into his lungs once more. He was clutching the railing of those carpeted stairs; his body was holding itself up, but he had no idea how.

“…I’m here. Sorry. So sorry. Wait… What did you say? Please tell me I didn’t hear what I think you just told me. You’re kidding. You have to be. This is some sick joke. Annie, this isn’t funny. Stop it. Please tell me this I heard you wrong. Please tell me -“ The soul completely bypassing his brain, his words streamed out at hurricane force. Emotions sped past so quickly that his voice could not keep up the pace. It cracked and strained as he spat out syllables, sounds, anything. The silence coming from his phone was as hollow as the tightening in his gut. Then her words came crashing back with all the force of a sonic boom.

“Peter. I’m so sorry. Its… I…” Annie stopped. Words stumping her flustered brain. She breathed deeply. Reset herself, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to exhale without sighing, but couldn’t. The sorrow escaped her lungs, “James. James is…” She reset herself again. Her tear-stained palm involuntarily clutched to her forehead. She was freezing, shaking, and nauseous. Every mumbled sound felt like a scream, no matter how hard she tried to stay level and quiet. She could only smell the copper of blood and taste the salt of tears. “James is dead.”

There it was again. Reality detached itself from his mind. Vertigo was all Peter knew. The impact of her words sent him careening. Except this time the words stuck with him. Reality was gone; all that was left was dizziness, burning, and those three words.

Staring at a White, Blank Page...

Inspiration. 

It's kind of a funny word. It has such a positive connotation. It makes you think of muses, music, and melodies. Basically: Beauty.

But that's just the thing about inspiration. It never flourishes in beauty. 

Inspiration only visits the dreamer when he's having nightmares. 

The beauty only comes from the breakdown.

 The real beauty, that is.

There is something. Some deep, dark, and hollow spot buried in every human. When it's struck, when something else, some inspiration, raps on its edges, it resonates. And it echoes within those hollow spots in others. And it's that rattle and hum that we call Beauty. Even Genius.

Somehow, we've managed to place our descriptions of the most hurtful, or most longing, or most destructive, at the very apex of our Beauty hierarchy.

We're enraptured with our own self-destruction.

Perhaps that's just sin.

So what's the point of all this melancholy macabre?

Simply to say that inspiration comes when life is here, at its fullest.

Sometimes that muse drops in on the Dreamer when he is clutching the sheets. Uncomfortably strewn across his bed. Neck back, ears clenched, and deep in a cold sweat. But other times she comes when he is sound in his sleep. His eyelids flickering from the rapid movements underneath. Sometimes inspiration reveals her gorgeous and demanding face when the Dreamer is overwhelmed in the well of information that is somehow coming from his own brain. Simply put: Inspiration is unpredictable. The only method of determining when she'll strike next is to know when she won't. And that's when the Dreamer is comfortable. When he is so far in his own sleep that he doesn't even dream.

After all, glass needs either fire or lightning to be formed.

In the Layman's terms: Busyness has served me well, there's a lot to write about as soon as I have the time to jot it down.

All We Need Is...

While in Europe, I realized the incredible nature of the idea of Harmony. I became obsessed with the idea and defining it. After setting out a new definition of harmony, I realized that there are a decent amount of words and concepts that need a revamping. A re-defining.

I tried to redefine some of these words there, but it was of no use.

I think that I have just redefined another one of them.

I was talking long distance with a wonderful, brilliant friend, and I stumbled upon a new definition.

I think I'm going to write a book around these new definitions someday; make it a philosophical treatise. In light of that, here's my thesis on love:


Love - Humans don't just need joy. They deserve it. And they cannot be the continual source of it for others. Love is someone pushing the joy back into your life as you exude it. The problem is relying on someone enough to let them push joy into your life.
Joy, and consequently Love, are similar to energy. The energy of physics. Energy is not created naturally. The only method that nature or humans have of manipulating energy is transference. Siphoning it from one place and putting it into another. Joy is the virtuous equivalent of energy. Humans cannot make joy, and thus we cannot create love. We can only transfer it. There is no natural "source" of Joy or Love. But these virtues do exist. Thus, they must come from somewhere. They must originate from some place. If they cannot be created naturally, then they must be created supernaturally. Obviously, there is but one source of Joy or Love. Humans just have to figure out how to harness, manipulate, and transfer that energy.

Christians are indistinguishable from other men either by nationality, language, or customs. They do not inhabit separate cities of their own, or speak a strange dialect, or follow some outlandish way of life...

With regard to dress, food and manner of life in general, they follow the customs of whatever city they have to be living in...

And yet there is something extraordinary about their lives. They live in their own countries as though they were only passing through. They play their full role as citizens, but labor under all the disabilities of aliens. Any country can be their homeland, but for them their homeland, wherever it may be, is a foreign country. Like others, they marry and have children, but they do not expose them.

They pass their days on earth, but a re citizens of heaven. Obedient to the laws, they live on a level that transcends the law.

Author unknown, quoted from Letter to Diogentus

Leviathan...

Excerpt from Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan, page 263

Liberty and Necessity are Consistent; As in the

water, that hath not only liberty, but a necessity of

descending by the Channel: so likewise in the

Actions which men voluntarily doe; which (because

they proceed from their will) proceed from liberty;

and yet because every act of mans will, and every

desire, and inclination proceedeth from some cause,

and that another cause, which causes in a

continuall chaine (whose first link in the hand of

God the first of all causes) proceed from necessity.

So that to him that could see the connexion of

those causes, the necessity of all mens voluntary

actions, would appeare manifest. And therefore

God, that seeth, and disposeth all things, seeth also

that the liberty of man in doing what he will, is

accompanied with the necessity of doing that which

God will, & no more, nor lesse. For though men

may do many things, which God does not com-

mand, not is therefore Author of them; yet they

can have no passion, nor appetite any thing, of

which appetite Gods will is not the cause. And did

not his will assure the necessity of mans will, and 

consequently of all that on mans will dependeth,

the liberty of men would be a contradiction, and

impediment to the omnipotence and liberty of God.

And this shall suffice, (as to the matter in hand) of that 

naturall liberty, which only is properly called liberty.

 I have a political theory class this semester, and we are reading some of the great minds of the Enlightenment and forward. I was excited about the book list, but the actual reading is rough. I have been putting my favorite quotes up on my twitter (@kuwalker) as they catch my eye. 

But this one was different. The debate on Freewill vs Predestination has haunted me for quite some time. I've dismissed it for a while, calling it a "learn nothing" debate that only caused Christians to get mad at each other. Not exactly fruitful. Despite my efforts at cooling this debate, however, it popped its head up at various times whilst I was bounding across Europa. Then, just when I think I've escaped, who comes along with a wonderful quote that explains things rather nicely (albeit hard to read because of the Old English)? 

Thomas Hobbes.

Oh Murphy's Law, you never fail.

Gestreikten durch Donner...

Blitz.

It's a better word than "lightning".

Lightning just doesn't do it justice. Blitz has a certain sense of fear behind it. You can hear the power behind the harsh pronunciation of that borrowed word. The crack of the pure surge of electricity that will not be held in the ground in longer emanates from the "t-z" at the end of Blitz.

Whoever said that German was an ugly language clearly never heard it spoken correctly.

These two weeks have been a full-fledged blitzsturm. And I've been standing on top of a barren mountain.

The blitz cracked, smacked, flashed, burned, and fried. But now I'm left with only the clap of thunder.

Only the "klang des dunner".

I love thunderstorms.

Let It Snow...

Weather.

Sometimes you need to be reminded that you that you are too busy. You are moving too fast. Your mind is in the left lane, and you miss the cities on the right.

Is it our society that pushes us to be too busy for our own good? Is it our constant need to pressure ourselves? Do we work better under pressure? Or are we scared to slow down and face ourselves?

Sometimes you have to hit a brick wall at 75 kilometers an hour. Sometimes you have to pop the airbag, unbuckle your seatbelt, bash open the broken door, stand on your wobbly and numb legs, rub your neck, observe the carnage, and then sigh. That big, unavoidable, relieving sigh.

Weather. Who would have guessed that weather would run you into a wall and make you slow down?