You can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus!

No! I don't think so...

Dear Amirashkan,

I find it pretty disturbing to think there's nothing but mass stupidity outside of "conversations" you are referring too.

Actually, I think there’s one important element missing from all these intellectual discussions and it is life itself.

What's the use of reading all kind of abstractions about the meanings of life? While we are sitting in a library - reading our books of philosophy- the real life is passing by outside of that library.

While being lost in between lines and pages and tangled ideas about life, at the same time we have missed to actually taste life's real fragrance; sweet or bitter, whatever it is! It means we have  missed the unique opportunity of thinking for ourselves, to come up with our own definition of life as a concept, making our own decisions about what is right or wrong.

Dear Amirashkan, I have nothing against quoting famous thinkers here and there, but I am against quoting them as if all great thinkers are already dead! As if no one else has nothing new to offer. As if we’ve already lost the chance of challenging these ideas or to come up with new ones…as if we have to be in complete awe facing their greatness (and in this process we have to surrender our own authority, instead of pushing our limits, or trusting our own judgment.)

I sense an element of defeat and self-deprecation in your reasoning and it is something I refuse to accept. 

I might be stubborn, optimistic or a living proof of that endless “human stupidity” that Kierkegaard talks about, but it really doesn’t matter, as this hope is all that keeps me alive…otherwise writing a suicide note wouldn’t be such an impossible task to do...:)

Thanks,

Azarin

PS: Sorry my dear Azadeh for writing such a long comment! 

Dear Azarin

Now you started talking (quoting Nietzsche) which is a good thing, because intellectual discussion  can mean simply what Wilfrid Sellars calls "an attempt to see how things, in the broadest possible sense of the term, hang together, in the broadest possible sense of the term."

This is complicated by the fact that to see how thing hang together you need to get in on the conversation that has taken place, on the one hand, between  Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Yeats, and the rest, and, on the other hand, between Parmenides, Plato, Augustine, Hume, Hegel, Heidegger, Wittgenstein, Derrida, and the rest. The more you quote the more you get involved in that conversation. Outside of this conversation there is nothing, only the  mobilization of mass stupidity.

Your saying, "my desire to vanish in nothingness," somewhat reminded me Nietzsche who said: Human will nothingness rather than will nothing.

Suicide notes

Dear Azadeh,

Such a moving suicide note!

At some point in my life, I thought about suicide, but then I started to write the suicide note and I was never satisfied and I fell asleep and then I woke up the next day to write that perfect suicide note...After days and weeks and months, I realized I didn't want to die anymore, because this impossible longing for writing had replaced my desire to vanish in nothingness.

I think those who turly love life, might think about it and actually commit suicide. Because life (the way it should be) has become impossible for them.

But I think as Nietzsche says: The idea of suicde is a great way of spending hopeless nights! (Or something like this, I cannot really rely on my own memory!)

Thanks for sharing! Azarin 

La vie

Thank you vey much Manoucher for your life-affirming poem. 

Thank you Amir-Ashkan for Richard Rorty's words. But "Perfect woman"??!!! Nah, too heavy a watermelon under my arm to carry!

I remembered this poem and took it out of my poetry file after I read Azarin's "The falling stream" that I liked very much.

I wrote it many years ago in a dark February night of Montreal, long before Lady Simorgh sealed her viage in my soul and let me know that we are all birds. Long before she coaxed me into clear sunlight and urged me to join her. I am still on my way to the top of Ghaaf and might never arrive there. But so far, at least I am in the slow process of leaving my birdness and becoming the flight.

The fire of life

The following is Richard Rorty's words about his own death:

Shortly after finishing “Pragmatism and Romanticism,” I was
diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer. Some months after I
learned the bad news, I was sitting around having coffee with my elder
son and a visiting cousin. My cousin (who is a Baptist minister) asked
me whether I had found my thoughts turning toward religious topics, and
I said no. “Well, what about philosophy?” my son asked. “No,” I replied, neither the philosophy I had written nor that which I had read seemed to have any particular bearing on my situation.

I had no quarrel with Epicurus’s argument that it is irrational to
fear death, nor with Heidegger’s suggestion that ontotheology
originates in an attempt to evade our mortality.

But neither ataraxia (freedom from disturbance) nor Sein zum Tode (being toward death) seemed in point.

“Hasn’t anything you’ve read been of any use?” my son persisted. “Yes,” I found myself blurting out, “poetry.” “Which poems?” he asked.

I quoted two old chestnuts that I had recently dredged up from
memory and been oddly cheered by, the most quoted lines of Swinburne’s
“Garden of  Proserpine”:

We thank with brief thanksgiving /Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever; / That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river / Winds somewhere safe to sea.

And Landor’s “On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday:

Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; / I warmed both
hands before the fire of life, It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Beautiful poem by a prefect woman, Azadeh Azad.

Beautiful!

تا کدام منزل این راه نپیموده سفر خواهم کرد؟

نکته جانا اینجا ست

زندگی آورد است.

زندگی لحظه هشیار میان من و توست.

بلی، از شور عشقی تازه باید گشت مالامال.

بلی از ریشه باید رست رستموار.

La mort

Merci Orang jan. Une belle chanson de Renaud. 

Et retournant sur le thème de la mort :-), voici un poème qui nous chavire le coeur - par chansonnier /guitariste Thomas Vuillemin.

//www.kewego.com/video/iLyROoaftCsG.html

Je sors,
Sans un remords
De ces longues saisons d'inconfort
Qui brûlent les âmes blessées
Dehors,
La nuit pleure encore
Dans les larmes et le froid je m'endors
Pour une éternité

L'ombre éteint la mémoire
J'ai laissé mon corps s'en aller
Le ciel s'est teinté de noir
J'ai vu les anges approcher
Comme un dernier espoir
J'ai senti la mort m'embrasser
Dans la chaleur du soir
La caresse étrange de ses doigts glacés

Je danse dans le silence
Où mon cœur a livré son errance
Loin des jours glacés
Je pense à ma délivrance
A cette nuit qui m'offre sa confiance
Elle peut tout pardonner

Et ma nuit sera belle, plus belle que le jour
Même ses orages sont imprégnés d'amour
Ils répondent aux appels d'un cœur bien trop lourd
Et ses nuages sont déjà tout autour

Je la sens dans mon cœur, elle le serre et l'entoure,
De ses dentelles refermées pour toujours
Je la vois sur mon cœur, drapée de velours,
Eternelle, comme un rêve sans retour.

Beautiful Azadeh jan.

Life could be suspended

Breath could be taken

But you couldn’t stop

Sun shining

Time running

Soul wining

Meaning of life is in your heart

 Any where you could be

Take care.

PS : Comme dit Renaud, Dès fois mourir est d'une manière un art de vivre ! //www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbXIt7DCRFw