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risingthumb.xyz Thus Spoke Zarathustra!

The Burden of Life birthed by Lamenting Death.

Lament

Oh my dear Brothers, that we shall die is to live. But whether we live life, or life lives us- or that we live death, and die to life... death is only an end, of our means.

Memento Mori, the old saying of Latin. Remember you will die. When your death weighs upon you, as it upon the Camel of Zarathustra's 1st metamorphosis, you stray and steer. You search for comforts to this end. And the end of this, is a discomfort, the denial of life.

How is it a denial of life? There are first those who ascribe negative value to life. Who preach antinatalism. They deny pleasures of the flesh- sex and reproduction is one pleasure, the creation and raising of a child is another pleasure. Creation, a primal pleasure- as in God's Genesis, in our regenesis. We cry, and wiggle- we decry and sizzle in the boiling hot coals of life's suffering.

Life is suffering. And to suffer, is to live my friends.

It is some comfort to say at the end, there is a shining beacon found in the afterlife. In Valhalla for the virtuous warrior. In Heaven for the virtuous imitator of Christ, graced by Christ. All of these are a denial of life, by an affirmation of the afterlife. An affirmation beyond the veil of death. That there is no basis to believe or disbelieve- that Pascal in the self-same wager that affirms and slays his God as believer, has condemned to the herds of other idols. That God competes in the abyss of all other Gods, even those to whom Goodness is Evil to Christians.

Oh friends, the bells toll each hour. One toll to your booth, the repentance of your sins. Oh God! I cannot see any more graves! I cannot see people pay in life, for their death. Show me something good, something joyous.

That deaths is an end, the idleness of our bodies. The eternal Sunday. God rested. We rested. And we never wake. It is the end of a week's creation. The end of a life's creation. Our children, our family, our friends weep. All our creation... and all creation wept.

It is a lament, that death is the primal fear, the basis of denial in our life- so struck dumb with stress, terror, nightmares of the night's mares that come to reap what was sown.

Burden

That we create our vision of death, is a creation of the burdens. Of the Camel. Of the desire to hold all our responsibility and life upon our back- and in such a simple creation, we weep, lament, and are crushed under them. Unlike Sisyphus, we take no joy in the boulder of life- and deny it. Is there an object to it? Or is it a phantasm of the mind? That haunts our every step with the sickly black tar that coats and crushes everything deep to the depth- that the Camel may bear no more. Painted black.

I see my burdens painted black, and see no light at the end. That there is death is a corrosion to all Good, all Evil and all Creation. Death is entropy, an ends, and our wills and woulds are a means to this ends- baked, burnt or bastardised.

All philosophy comes down to the question. Why live? As Camus said "the only philosophical question of any significance is the question of suicide". That we live in an absurdity, that we take our burdens in both hands, and roll it up the hill- knowing Gravity, knowing Entropy, knowing the world is a mocking jester at every turn.

But even the heavy jester creates joy out of the decks of tragedy, cards of comedy... birth of a dancing star. With such burdens, they can leap with joy and light-footed and heavy with life and vitality.

Steer clear of these preachers of death, and find bridges to the √úbermensch my Brothers. That your lives might be your virtue, and your highest hope kept holy. Memento Mori. Your highest hope is the creation of your second life. The life beyond your death. The creation beyond your life. What passes down your legacy and life, your tribe and world. Seven generations of thick skin have begotten you, and you are their highest hope kept holy- will you defile it in death, or honour in holy life?