Pepsis ruficornis,a spider wasp of the pepsini tribe found in the Central Highlands of the Dominican Republic, is among the infamous tarantula hawks known for their incredibly painful stings. This presumption has been deduced from the Schmidt Sting Pain Index, a chart in riveting detail of the pain caused by 78 different species and 41 genera of Hymenoptera, which includes sawflies, wasps, bees, and ants. The most painful rating of any insects is a 4 in this index, which belongs to the spider wasp, described as “blinding, fierce, and shockingly electric. A running hair dryer has been dropped into your bubble bath.” Only the Bullet Ant has surpassed this recorded pain.
Salticidae (possibly Caribattus), unfortunately a more specific name for the spider could not be placed. The “Christmas Lights” Jumping Spider found in the Dominican Republic of an unknown species here photographed to its supreme beauty. The fact that it is a jumping spider provides no aid in classifying it, as jumping spiders contain 13% of all spider species. Jumping spiders feature the best vision of any arthropod and every single species sports four pairs of eyes. They’re all ridiculously adorable, I cannot deny this. The phenomena of unknown spiders popping up in the Dominican Republic is no small note, it’s seriously messing with cataloging our lovely New World insects.
Phidippus audax,otherwise known as the daring jumping spider or the bold jumping spider, found primarily in North America except for the West Coast because nothing innocently beautiful ever goes there. They’re consider rather audacious (hence the Latin name audax) because they actively hunt prey, rather than use webs to catch food. They do use webs for concealment, eggs, and as “lifelines”, however. This particular jumping spider was found and photographed in Upper Marlboro, Maryland.
An unknown wasp from Yellowstone National Park ruining the credibility of this post completely. Actually, the rise of wasp species in Yellowstone National Park is in fact not a surprise, but was predicted in 1989 after 1988 fires burned 400,000 hectares of the forest. The importance of the fires cannot be understated, as the biological observations on species after a fire of such magnitude had never been recorded, and thus the destruction was a wonderful ground of opportunity.
Osmia atriventris, the Mason bee, occurs commonly throughout the Eastern United States and appears mostly in Spring. They are an effective pollinator of blueberries (so thank them) and their females prefer a solitary life. They create nests above ground in raspberry or blackberry cane or even take up residence in burrows in wood previously dug up by other insects. They seal their nests with plant fiber they chew to a pulp. Because of their preference to blueberry pollination, they are used commercially for the purpose.
Latrodectus variolus, the female Northern black widow spider, is a nonlethal (albeit venomous) black widow found in the Eastern United States and rarely southern Ontario, Canada. The bite from this spider is unpleasant but will not kill you, unless you suffer an allergic reaction. Regardless, make sure to call or see a doctor in a couple hours of suffering the bite or showing any symptoms. Do not die because you want to “brave it out.” Each spider contains 0.254 mg of venom, and the median lethal dosage in mice is 1.80 mg/kg (with a confidence interval of 1.20 to 2.70).
Synanthedon pyri, the Apple Bark Borer moth, is dressed as elegantly as any king or queen. The moth feeds on the bark of pear trees and the cambium of apple and hawthorn trees. These regal insects so brightly colored and adorned reside primarily Southern Canada south to West Virginia, west to Illinois.
Insects are the gods among us. Like all deities, in their form here on earth they remain subtle but obviously about. At any time, there are 10 quintillion (10,000,000,000,000,000,000) insects alive on the planet, and each one of them is as magnificent in appearance as they are in survival and ubiquity.
They survive in the most hostile of environments and can be exposed to lethal amounts of radiation, dehydration, starvation, and abuse and still survive against all probability. Since the Devonian period, insects roamed both the oceans and the lands, and they will most likely continue to long after we have been extinct or left this planet.
They can reduce entire populations to nothing or be the sole reason a nation or empire can sustain itself economically. Honey, silk, and formerly lac and dye, were and are extracted from insects to feed international demand. The infamous phylloxera, a grapevine pest, was the major factor in the destruction of European wine in the 19th century. The impact was so devastating, only a select few wineries survived and European wine would never taste the same. If you’ve ever drank European wine versus Chilean wine, note the significant difference. How different was the taste? Wine critic Kerin O’Keefe described pre-phylloxera wine as “listening to the earth singing to the sky.” To the US economy alone, and only insects related to fish, insect services provide $224,637,000 US dollars annually to the economy, as well as an incomplete national minimal estimate of 60 billion dollars in other services.
As gods of old religions, we hailed to them from Ancient Egypt to China. Still now, the greatest aspects of our economies rely on them to function properly. We are blind to the scattered behemoth. We are absolutely apathetic toward the ancient ones.
An epidemic is currently ravaging the world. Insect populations, in particular the vital bee, are drastically reducing. The precise cause is unknown, but human intervention is not helping. Pesticides, pollution, deforestation, general hatred, and industrialization are not the root cause of this epidemic but they are aggravating the dwindling diversity of insect species. This is the first time in hundreds of millions of years where insect populations are portraying such decline, and with them goes the plants they pollinate, the food the plants generate, and the beings that eat the food.
Author’s Note: I don’t hire an editor to go through these posts, because that would be ridiculous. If you find an error, I implore you to fix it mentally. I will not.
Beyond the Horizonby Leonid Kozienko (c. 2008)
Kozienko was inspired by director Makoto Shinkai’s animation style. Shinkai himself was greatly dedicated to replicating the soft, nearly nostalgic color palette and gentle and fluid animation of the famous and amazing Hayao Miyazaki.
The two artworks afterward are screenshots of two of Miyazaki’s films.
The first is of Castle in the Sky and the second is of My Neighbor Totoro. Both considered the two greatest animated films ever made.
Miyazaki is noted for his soft, gentle color palette mixed with superb detail, character development, and realistically strong and independent female characters. Many of his movies are premised around heroines who show assertiveness and strength through trepidation, and do not conquer evil but rather balance it.
Makoto Shinkai, known for science fiction films such as Voices of a Distant Starand magnificent Romantic dramas like 5 Centimeters Per Second, has been praised for revitalizing the anime style of animation. He takes extreme care of his backgrounds and scenery, to a lush and unarguably artistic extent. He has been hailed as “The New Miyazaki.”
This is a Daily Reminder for Brooke Kerger.
Through flakes of glassy constellations and soft, warm breezes you approached me. Breaths slipped between our knotted lips and we gasped and we moaned. It was silent mostly, except for the occasional mumble or request. We did not challenge the music that played. We did not mind the voyeuristic shadows that watched us in the corners of this haven of ours. As you touched my soul I groaned. I touched your soul with the force of a thunderstorm throttling you as gently as the coastal beaches. You foamed and you hummed, but inevitably we both screeched and cried.
"Like this," I murmured in the haze. "Like that."
"Oh… yes… ." You whispered through breathlessly into the void between my pursed lips and your teeth digging into your bottom lip.
You saw me dance from Magic City, packed with grins and sarcastic rants. My head bowed and my body urging. I could see only the Orange sun blistering the sea red and yellow across each swell’s crest behind your golden eyes. Far brighter than any skyscraper I was accustomed to, I was ripped apart so gracefully by your beautiful smile and the bewilderingly mundane gods lingering within your laughs and words.
Dance and dance we did again. Each night it was the same song, but a different epic was told. Sip and sip we lapped at each other, piece by piece. Fragmented worlds caressed the wall we faced and blazed and blazed, these summer suns came and came again and again. I had never known they would come true, those phantasmagoric night dreaming in Cuban and you only saw lost, Brazilian watercolor eyes lost in ministries of thought and stepping stones on Occam’s razor’s edge. Everything felt useless and ruthless, even less meaningful without you, my goddess.
Sway and sway, we have. Back and forth, against gradients of worry and fear. A tempest each night following our conscious flights. You there, with the unmitigated mind and find me. Unwind and come behind me. Kiss the back of my neck, please. And there, with the unconventional request, released nebulae hiding in your eyes. Humming, burgeoning, birthing galaxies bursting from a million stars within each pupil. I could not resist either iris, but to be in their gaze? What a wonder, a blunder, torn asunder by time and by you, my savage westerner in due time. Moment and moment, time and time again, back and forth we swung on to this pendulum’s jazz, unraveled and enraptured. Entranced and subconscious. Sweating and sweeping by our soles each plume of dust caught by the southern city’s street corner, slapping each others’ hands and sharing our necks.
We are alive and I could not feel a single death reverberating about the world, trembling and trudging zealously and terrifying each soul from Zion to New Zealand. We were dead and I could not feel a single life pulse that was not yours, powerful impacting each point of my paucity. Your pulse pulled me. Your pulse beat me. Your pulse lifted my every grip on this panoramic day.
I love you dearly and you must know it. We can go on and on in the same beat. But at times we may find ourselves lost about it, looking for a reason to swing to the same sway. But my dear, we are the musical percussion and strings. Let us pluck a new earth. Let us build a new joy each day and night. Let us still dance this dance, lovely and truly. My everything and anything, I could not come to this life any happier than with you into my abyss. I sink with it and love it fully. I try each again and again to find the words in style and speech, but oh no we must try them all. This Magic Word of all and forever. I can only say in every way I love you. I can only claim in each and every sentence you are perfect. I can only promise that I am yours and completely and utterly yours. I am satisfied. I am amazed. I am amassed. I am composed in the sense that I am ballistic for you.
Here we are, lucky as though we were drenched orange in a permanent sunset, hand in hand in love and all and forever in this nothingness. My everything, let me see Brooke. My Brooke, let me see everything hiding within you. This cycle of swing and swing may make no sense, but I promise you nothing else does. You may try to find a rhythm and that’s alright, my lovely beauty. You won’t find anything but the dance of something that can’t be.
We dance and we dance, silently, knotted in love or lust or anger or dusk. Come again and again my floating dream. Sleep and sleep, by my side sweaty and wrapped in me. Come and kiss me, the love of my life, again and again. My everything, and everything in me. I love you so much, Brooke Kerger.
Hope- George Frederic Watts (c. 1886)
Allegory for Hope- Francesco Guardi (c.1747)
This is a Daily Reminder for Brooke Kerger.
We go forward into time and we realize we shattered shard by shard through every step. We are things of glass composed of a reflection everything around us. We can do nothing but shimmer and gleam in the sheen of a million stars. We can do nothing but bask in radiance and shout in the abyss, hoping to be something more in this existential tomb of howls and bleeding eyes tossed to the Stygian face of God. But you and I, Brooke Kerger, we heard each others’ shouts. We screamed and wept and gasped and begged in the darkness like every other hopeless flicker of life and someone somehow responded. We reached into the nothingness to pull on whatever unknown person made the noise.
Our fingers touched. Our palms pulled to one another. Our wrists turned ever so slightly as if they floated in water to pull the rest of our bodies closer. We could not see each other. Not yet. We could not hope for what we may find, but the voice we both heard was inexcusably beautiful. We heard something as heavy as the pressure throttling our corpses from above, the titanic monster of this everythingness, forever roaring with the voice of one million demons and one million splendid angels. We were neither of these things. We were humans. We were just creatures of glass. But we pulled forward and we pulled deeper.
When we were finally interlocked, our fingers knotted so tightly, we could see each other. We did not see reflections. We saw mosaics. We wanted to be more than just a reflection we saw on this mosaic. We ripped ourselves apart in front of one another. It hurt both of us. We were killing ourselves. We weren’t enough. But once we had stripped ourselves of these mirrored exteriors, we were just plumes of darkness among the rest of the universe’s black. You and I… we saw the universe in each other. We saw every hue. We saw every shade. We saw every color. We saw every stream. We saw every contrast. We saw every end. We saw every beginning.
It was Oscar Wilde that claimed all love is deception, as was war according to Sun Tzu. It’s a magical show, isn’t it? The same passion that builds worlds in each others’ hearts is the same passion that immolates our own physical war for things like borders, resources, flags, and “principle.” Our love was certainly deception. We deceived each other to think we were humans. But the illusion is not perfect. I can still see nebulae swinging about the tempests that are your pupils. I can see the festoon of galaxies collide as the foaming white on each wave’s crest on your wet lips when we part from a kiss. I could count each cried tear from Mephistopheles that composed your soul, my Faustian goddess.
The album cover for Clams Casino’s Rainforest EP.
This is a Daily Reminder for for for for for for for for for
This Daily Reminder is for Brooke Kerger.
If I had noticed the way stars collapsed among the folds of leaflets as I pushed them into envelopes, I would have caught glimpses of the way your body functions. If I had observed with scrutiny the way shadows and monsters stretch themselves over miles, shifting through the measurements of imaginary numbers, I would have understood why our fears and our worries seem so resilient and undeterred by the throes of our combative love. I suppose the abstract eluded me, and with it the reflection of all that is grounded in reality. I mean to say I have to look far deeper through you to see the canvas you are so masterfully rising from. Far beyond me, far above me, your dimensions… how many of them there really are, catch light with by the neon elegance of your form.
I cannot comprehend how you are the way you are, and I cannot understand every single metaphysical and metacognitive concept thrown about uselessly in this world. I cannot understand how you can be all that you are, this infinite of eternity. eternity of infinite… this… are you that? I cannot count the electrons carrying each ark of beaming photons from each star. I cannot count each minute detail of your existence, the way your eyelashes trap universes within your irises and the motion of your muscles as they lift me to nirvana. My apotheosis, my explosive anti-matter, combust with me. I know it’s asking a lot to ignite all that you are for me so that I may admire it, learn from each trickled drop of flame, and sip generously from the pool of fire and vigor you exude each day. From yourself, you expunge the warm bodies and the cold souls of my stories, and with manifested shadows you hide in my heart as a cloaked sentry watching over each throb and each pump.
In this desert of nihilism, we chose to praise thirstiness. I suggest you and I walk away from this cultural capillary cycle, and we build our own oasis far below the dunes and the sweltered canvas of Earth. I hope you’ll follow me there, far below the ugly known into this beautiful, elegant reflection of you: the magnificent Brooke Kerger, the magnificent unknown.
The way your curves slip away through reality as I close my eyes astounds me. The way our pursed lips blossom for one another amazes me. The way we take our cursed sips from each other’s bodies arouses me. The way we knot as vines atop one another, a flowery Ouroboros building day by day our own Borobudur. My Stygian, serpentine infinite, slithering about the divide between what can be and what simply is impossible, mixing the waters of both oceans with your melodious voice and cathartic creativity and your artistic energy.
Kiss me, my caduceus, and I will protect you from tyrants, titans, and Tiresias’s staff. Touch me, my Aesculapius, and sink your venomous rivers into my temples. We come together, theory and practice, so finely we unravel the mysteries we made ourselves. We break through each shard of you, each small thing about you, and find the hidden nebulae rising as pillars of smoke in each one. My everything, my anything, you are also in the reflection of every abstraction I see.
So we run. So we run so far away. We burn each other up and we run for the hills. They melt at our very feet and we drown in an ocean of mud and dirt and animals desperately trying to latch onto lumber or rocks. We sink to the surface of another swelling tide. The sky is maroon, and now it has shifted to violet. Electric blue humanoids, clad in bioluminescent glows, rescue us. We see each other again, in the dawn of a new world. We do not realize it has only been a minute or so since you hung up or I. We want to apologize, but we honestly don’t care… we forgave each other seconds after the discrepancy. We just want to embrace, and we can’t do that right now. Our body is aching, but we hear each other say our names…
"Brooke," I whisper a yell across the dock of metal and lights, carrying with them a million stories in each container as ships the size of planets motion through the endless seas. Your name cracks each container, and the billions of stories erupt from their caskets set aflame.
"Mateus," you moan through mangrove walls and thick jungle brush, with vines falling from the trees onto your steamboat. This is the same boat that rescued you. My name raises the river and floods the Earth. You’re forever sailing, without a single worry, on and on until the cataracts carry you off your dream and you plummet back into where we are now: together and very much in love.
Yes, things can be abstract. Even in literal senses, this world is filled with dark matter and anti-matter and wormholes and black holes and x-rays and gamma rays and supernovae and super giants. Yes, this world is madness and too much to comprehend for some. I suppose I’m lucky. I have you, the measurement and magnifier and frame of all things.
Thank you for being mine, thank you for being you. Please change if you must, never change if you can. Regardless, I will evolve with you as all life does. I will follow you my everything. You’re wonderful and I’m proud of you. I love you very much, Brooke Kerger. That is not abstract.
Homeward Bound- David Tutwiler
This is a Daily Reminder for Brooke Kerger
It’s all quiet in the town. There’s just a trace of a breeze following our feet as we make our way across the bridge, a million car lights roaring under their breath beneath us. They’re on their way somewhere. Each one of them is headed somewhere: maybe to a party, perhaps to go home and eat ice cream in the pale glow of a computer screen, or maybe they’re on a date.
Are we on a date? I’m not so sure you could call it that. I just woke up upon your snoring visage as beautiful as the delicate morning caress of the sun and we went about our day. There’s no itinerary for tonight. There’s no scribbles of ink or knots of thought binding us to some elusive schedule far beyond our need. What’s that you said? That’s true… the stars seem evenly separated from the moon and each other. It looks as if they’re dancing together, shimmering a choreographed night. Not us… not tonight. The wind is trying to crawl into the jacket I lent you, trying to girdle the Daedalus of its mercurial cool, the precursor to butterflies in someone’s stomach or high breath. You are the progenitor of all giddy, explosive, enthusiastic emotions. You look familiarly breathtaking tonight, but as all nights, in a way I have only admired this particular night. Your hair is swinging to the rhythm of traffic. Your eyes are following the movement of my arm around your body as I pull you in to kiss you.
I want the few thousand strangers crossing underneath this metropolitan mezzanine in the great societal torrent to see our lips lock. I want lost women looking for a man to exhale a heavy sigh as they see - in a blur of motion - the tails of your twin lips to curve up as the warmth from you and I knot. I want married couples to reminisce with heavy hearts, sinking in oceans of empty love unexplored as the depths of yours and mine. I want apathetic yuppies and ludicrous and meaningless “artists” to watch in contempt and confusion as my hands wrap around your waist and your feet begin to fall limp. You’re lost in the darkness of our embrace, and not an endless supply of other spirits could catch your closed eyes for a moment as we kiss. Your weight falls onto my forearms, and now you float among the universe we built. Each burning star, an invigorated furnace casting the shadow of your grandiose soul: a nebulous plume of neon particles roaming everything consumed by the infinity that we forged in our palms and our quivering skin and our trembling euphoria.
How wonderful our inhibitions are few and our love is plenty. How amazing that as the moss and ferns girdle the barking lumber, our affection and inspiration and admiration for one another stretches on, forever, upon space and time… and all and forever. Between our lustful interaction in public space and our musing laughs and kisses in any and all situations, there is no time to feel self-conscious about how magnificent I know you are and how magnificent you know I am. I believe you when you tell me because I know your voice to never waver and your body to never falter.
I know you miss me. Don’t worry, we’re going to be together again very soon. Hold my hopes tightly in your grip. Hold my promise as the chains pulling at the Black Monster’s throat. They’re rusted and they’re cracking, but trust them and trust me. You dazzle me and we pain one another aching for each single syllable we utter to another and each sightly smile of our faces.
I atrophy in my unwilling perfectionism and you rot among the stagnation of endless inspiration. The unstoppable force that is your mind and the immovable object that is my stubborn perspective finally collided. An unanswered question for eon upon eon of philosophy at last answered by experimentation. What happened was something like no other. Sisyphean’s rock eroded by the heavy winds. We were enslaved to our destructive self-deprecation, but now our backs ripped apart by flagellation and our eyes worn away as blades quenched in blood, rubbed blunt by whetstone, are free. We look among the ruins of Greek myth. We were liberated from reality. We can see the aftermath of every poetic fable and cultural story. We can travel between realities now that we have shattered our binds to it.
We clasped onto hidden timidity and cast our doubts in black veils to hide them as we explored this Stygian void together. I want to immerse myself in you. Please, my darling and goddess, immerse yourself in me. Everything will fine on this journey of struggle and madness. We will be driven through each struggle by force and we will fail and fail. Above all else, however, we will be alright in the end and by each other’s voice will we hear our tempests and our fireflies.
I love you so much, darling. Thank you for being in my life Brooke Kerger. I’m proud of you and so happy to be with you, my perfect cherry blossom.
Castelluccio is a village part of the town of Norcia in the Apennine Mountains of central Italy. The population is around 150 people, whose main economy sustains itself on lintel, grains, and sheep. It receives heavy rainfall during summer and spring, but their thick soil is drained via underground karstic systems. This city is naturally lush, placed so delicately at the cusp of innate majesty, in stark contrast to Shanghai.
This is a Daily Reminder for Brooke Kerger.
I suppose it’s a gamble. Everything that involves variables is a gamble. My darling, humans are the greatest variables of all. We’ll sabotage you. We’ll destroy you just because we hate ourselves. We’ll be nothing but shells or everything that could possibly be contained in one. We are the inconsistent variables, and any equation constructed to contain our visceral anomalies only disintegrates from our sheer, kinetic force.
We put each other together, and we trembled in doubt. We were not perfect. I spill demons from my lips when you need silence the most. Your mind is the Daedalus of my pain, forging each masquerade for my viral monsters so that they may breed again, again, and again within my numb cells. My prison of thought that shackles me to perfectionism, driving me toward a frantic lethargy. Your infinite grid of synapses, hiding dimensions in their gaps and firing stars between their sheathed circuitry. You are paralyzed by infinity.
We want to be perfect and we try and try. We already found one another but we try and we try because it is pain we fear. We fear the suffering of nothingness, of apathy, and so we drive on. But we just have to stop for a moment and enjoy the breeze. We built our empires, and the universe is always here to explore in the asymptotic lacerations in you irises, the thin slivers of nebulous black cut into the nebulae.
Love is the product of wishing to experience someone just like you wish you experience a hobby, philosophy, study, or place. It takes entire lifetimes to experience just one or two things. But love is the confidence in an equation that always changes. It is trust in the variables that always reinvent themselves, each curve and stretch of the glyph, and the way they are pronounced as well. Love is our photon beam, and it takes so much effort to experience the warmth of this single, atomic pillar of brilliance.
I trust you, Brooke Kerger. I have confidence in beauty I see eternally, soaked in tears or dried in a Mojave sun hidden away behind the darkness of my eye. I hear the serenade of a stream calmly girdling a meadow, the brook wrapping its entirety around the bohemian paradise; I hear it every time you speak… whether you say, “I love you,” “fuck you,” “hello,” or “goodbye.” I can still hear the deep, subconscious torrent underwater and the high percussion of the stream’s jets bursting at contact with mossy pebbles. I’ve said it so many times and I wish to say it again, so that you may read it so.
We argue beautifully. We tear ourselves and we weep when the other person is too eviscerated to put us back together. We curse the frivolous blotches of rhythm in our bombastic jazz. We despise the way reality impedes on our lovely insanity, our cathartic catacomb of old worlds and our workshop of nova-earths. We walk hand-in-hand on the stream’s riverbed.
We will be cold in the winter, and the snow will frost on our bare skin. We will shiver. But we know as the entire body fails to recognize heat, we will have the candle of our palms, knotted in a wick, humming embers to the frosted night.
I love you, Brooke Kerger. We’ll be alright. Thank you for being in my life. I love you so much. Everything is alright. I’m so proud of you and so honored to be with you.
It is a baseless and ignorant myth that beauty, art, and love stem from anything other than moderation, science, and logic. There is much meaningless to feel in this world, but what comforts me is that a trillion bacteria war against foreign viruses every day upon skin to protect a temple that vilifies them. Stumbling - dumbfounded - across this desert of Nihilism, my thirst is quenched by the torrents of photons cascading down on me from the cataracts of constellations and asterisms in the night.
It was the Age of Enlightenment that begot Romanticism. It was industrialization that paved the path of abstract and modernism. It was men like Erasmus Darwin, who saw such poetic magnificence in nature, that grandfathered Charles Darwin. We learn of the world and we slowly learn to alter it. The exponential of scientific learning and curiosity directly sparked the spectrum of godly appreciation for nature. Many famous individuals could be seen as complimenting both views of the natural world, such as Erasmus Darwin and Carl Linnaeus, Joseph Haydn and Frederick the Great, Rousseau and Lamarck. Romanticism is the embodiment of not just god, but innate grandeur in all natural things. The universe is natural, each star births the carbon that composes the falling leaves that kiss our skin. The physics and mathematics governing the orchestras of every idiosyncratic venture hide their own virtuous effulgence. Science, logic, and moderation are not foils to romanticism or passion, but their accentuations.
Through knowledge of the universe, we learn to become its gods. We can split atoms, whose very names come from the Greek atomos which means indivisible. We can change the DNA of living creatures and map our own genomes. This past year, the first man-made object left our solar system. Much more than a few billion miles away, an inconceivable distance to our fragile yet complex brains, a human object is drifting off away from the sun singing songs on the golden record of humanity. Almost every incurable disease and illness and ailment is gradually muttering its swan song, and the iron laws of the universe are trembling from the sundering fury of our species.
Some are satisfied with just searching for meaning in the world, distracting themselves from the uselessness of their endeavor by bunkering themselves within the catacomb of culture. But then there are people, a type of person anyone can become, that create their own meaning. We are the titans. We are the gods. We are Hephaestus and we are our own Daedalus. They warn us of our arrogance Icarus feet, but these mercurial legs will not falter across solar flares.
My friends, learn. Learn so much. Learn everything. Learn anything. Appreciation everyone. Do not become a reaction. Do not only define yourself by what people decide to give you. Ask yourself, if you were born in any other place on Earth would you still be you? I know I would still be a writer, my inspirations would be different but my cause and my passion would never alter itself. These things you reblog, including this if you enjoy it, do not define you. Your developed critique, development, and emotions of it define you. Be deliberate and connect everything to see the great mosaic you live in. These are my words, not yours. They may inspire you or be a catalyst to your own heart, but they must stop there. Create yourself and live deliberately and steadily. Be moderate but be passionate in that skepticism. Be appreciative in your joy and never generalize. You have the same brain as each of the 100 billion human beings that walked this earth for 200,000 years.
Take their hands and take their neurons. Invigorate your alighted synapses. You are great. You are grand. Create your own universe, and add this atomic drop to the masterpiece that is our living, burgeoning timeline.
Organic life beneath the shoreless waves
Was born and nurs’d in ocean’s pearly caves;
First forms minute, unseen by spheric glass,
Move on the mud, or pierce the watery mass;
These, as successive generations bloom,
New powers acquire and larger limbs assume;
Whence countless groups of vegetation spring,
And breathing realms of fin and feet and wing.
- Erasmus Darwin, The Temple of Nature 1802