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Selective Empathy

  A selective empathetic is a more sinister evil than the outright unempathetic. The unempathetic is quite small in numbers, and are under more scrutiny. The selective empathetic is one of reflective desire, picking and choosing those to be glad for and wishing to prosper based off of desired personal gain, gain that involves putting others down in the process. This level of empathy is pure submission to outside preachers, outside systems, media, literature, art, and economics, and represents a dark and fallible inner sense. Letting things simply happen, apathetic to their greater truth, nihilistic in meaning, and a walking product of guiding forces around them. A pure empathetic is empathetic to all in all situations, noticing the humanity in all. It is sad to notice the selective empathetic being a prevalent and lauded endeavor, when the qualities of such selective empathetic are thought of also as manipulation. A great contradiction in social morality and personal character judgeme


Wailing deep shouts from the top of the roof,
how have we lost this part of us?

There he was, with primal emotions of the anthropology of humankind. Forget what we have decided is fine, this is what it is. Nature will be nature, how should you shout to make it retreat? It will never listen, it will eat your ears. The wisdom found in nature isn't what we find in our urge to fight. No, nature is our soul. We can ignore it if we want, but it won't ignore us for long.

We will believe things to be real when they aren't, we will divide our souls into its many parts. We will be what we think we should be, and yet, underneath our search for truth, we are there with our fucking nappies. How should the soul believe truth when there is no such thing? Sitting, stroking our locks of hair, we have indeed been deemed the soul finder's truth. We are the laughter in the forest, and we have lost this part of us.

This individualization and root understanding comes with a consistent, large, and painful set of risks, rewards, regrets, and ramparts. The soul is its bitch. It's not what we make it; it is our lust and prowess. Oh lord, thou shalt not define me, thou shalt not fight the gods. Thou shalt be the light in the forest. And we, the finders of truth (and soon to be death), will ignore your commands out of spite, or out of might, whichever we feel at the moment.

So, there we sit, upon the ferocious lion's den of heat and majesty, and again for the look over ourselves, we have found peace. But peace will not stay. It will fucking leave, and we will be fucking gone. So lets cherish this time, 

As the moron who has overcome his fears.