Existential Quote of the Week: April 17-23

“Regardless of the staggering dimensions of the world about us, the density of our ignorance, the risks of catastrophes to come, and our individual weakness within the immense collectivity, the fact remains that we are absolutely free today if we choose to will our existence in its finiteness, a finiteness which is open on the infinite. And in fact, any man who has known real loves, real revolts, real desires, and real will knows quite well that he has no need of any outside guarantee to be sure of his goals; their certitude comes from his own drive.”

-Simone de Beauvoir

French Existential Philosopher and Author


The Dead Lay Before Us as a Trail of Clocks

The human being, as a collaborative whole, is only free once we live outside the boundaries of our malevolent and socially destructive walls. When one has relentlessly sought after truth, reason and their own existence they will, in the end, see the larger picture; the culmination of life in all of its vibrance, its wonder, mystery and the consternation that is caused by our every experience. We are yet a moment into the progression of a vastly more interesting being than ourselves, which we call: Time.

It travels beyond the borders of all that has existed and it is unfairly defined. You were born this morning and you are to die later this day. There are no years. There are no months, or weeks, or days. Hours or Minutes. There is just the sun and the moon. The sky, the cosmos, the universe, and the rotation of our spherical rock, solid mass, orbiting a flaming star of gas and matter.

Time is no more than an illusion. You can not spend Time, you can not lose Time. You can not waste Time, and you can not buy Time. You can not touch, taste, smell, see, or hear it.

Imagine a world, free from the bondage of Time.


Throw Your Clocks to the Dead, They are as Good as Corpses

Throw Your Clocks to the Dead, They are as Good as Corpses,

A Tale of False Hope Screams,

From Every Minute Lost,

And Every Second Counted,

The Days Speak in Inaudible Tongues,

As We Grasp at Them,

And Find Them as Evanescent,

As Life Itself.

Time Would Prattle On,

Without our Pathetic Measurements.

It Would Sweep and Sway,

Across the Canvas of Eternity,

And Paint a Portrait,

A Wonderful Caricature,

Of Our Decadence.


is a Paradox.