We might wish that life had a retort for our longings and urges as humans abiding on earth. There were no explanations, absence of standards, ethics meant nothing back then, it was a relatively dark age, and the role of men’s vitality forged ideas—documents, tales, storytellers, traditions, legends, and myths. Only of these ventures that history was cultivated and what a mess that interpretations close to uncovering truths or to, at least, have an insight with which fiction and rumor can be distinguished—then, thrown in the clutter.
A man is Zarathustrian. He is symbolized to descend alone from mountains, surfing in the forests, lifting himself on rocks, climbing hedges, surpassing borders, and encountering no one. Always on a constant pilgrimage, on a chore to acknowledge his superiorities—a path setting apart his cosmos of people’s—sequestering his belonging to the rules decrying the majority of individual groups and he keeps on questioning of what true sanity would be rendered. The reach of the sort of edge where one’s saint spirit is contemptuously regarded on his everyday doings. A risky temptation to know who oneself particularly is and of what, generally, men are capable of being and becoming.
Though today, modern societies are known for their avarice. I see machines chewing gum rather than vigorous men revolting against impostors. The world is capitalized on material equipment, but how—if I impose my reasoning and require—can a dignitary pay for contentment? There’s no way for that. It’s priceless, so is a man overcoming who he was to pass to the over-man he probably must have been since the birth of his existence.
Now, I’m here waiting for our awakening. We shall all comprehend that the entire civilizations are forfeited, failed projects, and lies. A man has to go for his destiny, walking straightforwardly on a road he assumes for his end and keeps on striving forward, aiming to understand things with his perceptions and shutting the echoes willing to weaken him or to shatter his endurance for the sake of proper tangibilities and conclusions.
‘Verily, I also let them see new stars along with new nights; and over clouds and day and night I still spread out laughter as a colorful tent.’, speculated Nietzsche. Also, ‘Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?’ questioned Charles Bukowski.
And you, thus dismal pal, can you remember?
