On getting Angry
Posted on September 19, 2019
Posted in The Great Cosmic Kindness – Group
Cosmic Wanderer August 1, 2019 04.00am
On getting Angry
I find it so dissatisfying to get angry. To feel myself getting my Irish fighting blood up. But when, predictably, retard Africans throw small children and their mothers in front of trains, and when, predictably, the great Liberal Thinkers, cocooned in their magnificence, merely yawn, coldly file their nails, (or instantly push out a dismissive “Sh*t happens, move on” propaganda line), I find it hard to think clearly. It's like I'm thinking through a film of red. Wanting to clutch my CNC, computer-mill home built AR-10, break out the ammo, and charge them all. Screaming. The keyboard clacks busily, and I fire off hot, angry, even bitter retorts.
But always, after a while, I sigh. Enough for now. Oh, we shall return to the fray. That war is coming to Europe, I am sure. It's already there. We just haven't seen the shrieking, machete wielding, mass bloody pogroms against White Christians. Yet.
But there is a time to be angry. To prepare. To Fight. There is also a time to wander the Cosmos. Quietly. Marveling. In silent awe. Like a Cosmic Helicopter Pilot, plying my old trade, but this time passing through portals. Visiting strange places, in lonely isolation. Admiring the human cell, a work house factory, busy, frenetic, at a microscopic level, beautifully orchestrated. Amazingly arranged. And all that brilliance… by chance? By happy accident? By the random workings of Time, and the chemical soup? That… is the predominant view. The official line, taught as gospel in schools. I, a renegade, always, with the scars to prove it…. don't buy it. It's too beautiful. To amazing. Irreducibly complex. You have to have it all working together, at the same time. The hurricane, that blows through the scrapyard, and perfectly assembles a Boeing 777…?
I plod my beating rotor blades past the mammoth star Betelgeuse, and I am in awe of this monster. The energy defies my limp verbiage. I wander a field, my hands touching grain, and wild flowers. A humming bird comes to my feeder. Clouds drift slowly by, overhead.
And I marvel. This… was all an accident?
A tiny voice, barely discernible, seems to whisper to me. Above the soft breeze, and past the myriads of confusions. Down the halls of Time, and in and out of dusty windows. Like petals falling, or dandelion seeds scattered by a small child. I see old vistas, and I hear an old melody. The wonder has never left me.
Is kindness only within? Does it reside only in our tired minds? A brief, fleeting, evolutionary oddity? An incentive to care for offspring? And the clan? To survive? And no more?
Or does it lie without? Is there a great well somewhere out there? A spring of Life? The source of wonders? Do my tiny steps, echoing down those halls of Time, matter?
Does anybody… care?
I feel suffocated. I walk outside. Pondering. The cold, iron bars of my cell, hemming me in, are still there.
But so. Are the stars…
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 15, 2019, 3:50 pm