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Surreal Existence - Stoicism


Author: Astarael
ASL Info:    19/Girl/Baltimore
Elite Ratio:    5.34 - 87 /102 /38
Words: 342
Class/Type: Poetry /Misc
Total Views: 1338
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
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Description:


It's a freestyle piece of work on the connection between dreams and reality. I think I could write for ages on this subject.

And it must be more than coincidence that right after I wrote this I noticed that I had stumbled upon this page with a few words from Aristotle about stoicism:

'Since all knowledge is a knowledge of sense-objects, truth is simply the correspondence of our impressions to things. How are we to know whether our ideas are correct copies of things? How do we distinguish between reality and imagination, dreams, or illusions? What is the criterion of truth? It cannot lie in concepts, since they are of our own making. Nothing is true save sense impressions, and therefore the criterion of truth must lie in sensation itself. It cannot be in thought, but must be in feeling. Real objects, said the Stoics, produce in us an intense feeling, or conviction, of their reality. The strength and vividness of the image distinguish these real perceptions from a dream or fancy. Hence the sole criterion of truth is this striking conviction, whereby the real forces itself upon our consciousness, and will not be denied. There is, thus, no universally grounded criterion of truth. It is based, not on reason, but on feeling.'

Amazing.

That is the 'Meddle' album cover.


Surreal Existence - Stoicism



The city turns its big wheels
Like the gears of a giant clock
Lights pulse from red to green
And cars flow in the darkness of this 3 AM night.

But I am fast asleep
Inside the clock,
Dreaming of the world beyond
As my time ticks away in slumber.

Thinking it might be you and me,
Reflected in that crystal mirror
Of a dream
Radiating my innermost desires.

And this cigarette now burns
Like my love for you
And the music now plays back
A familiar tune.

And your voice now calls
Somewhere, lonely on an Irish moor
Or walking on an old historic parquetry floor.
In some place classically dangerous.

You like to ride along the beach
And you like to sing me fast asleep
Slowly, with your guitar.
You like to dream.

You like to sail upon the sea.
You only want to be with me.
In a dream. In a dream.
Tell me please, is this just a dream?

Wild unmastered thoughts
Collide in my head
And swirl in the macrocosm
Of this universe, so free.

So small, so large
So clear and so obscure
Such a concrete apparition
Tangibly surreal. Does it exist after all?

Mirage, turn to dust at my fingertips;
I can still feel you.
Illusion, cast a shadow;
I think I could touch you.

Where are we now and where do we reside?
Within our minds, within the rising tide?
On nimbus clouds upon the lofty sky?
Can you show me where I go when I die?

Can you teach me how to fly?
To grow transparent wings and glide.
To touch fire and see the wind whisk by?
Can you tell me all the wheres and all the whys?

Is this life?
Shrouded ghosts and ectoplasms
Fleeting moments embedded in my mind
Enigmas winding around the countryside.

Fleeting, ephemeral notions
They linger forever.
But you tell me:
Is this a dream;


Is it only a dream?




Submitted on 2005-06-16 15:22:00     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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