break my heart for what is yours, everything i am for your kingdom's cause

.


another response to a bit from thoreau's walden--

The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things. I do not with to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary. My head is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated in it, My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and fore-paws, and with it I would mine and burrow my way through these hills.

Thoreau and I agree, apparently, on the importance of the mind, the fact that the intellect provides merit in life, and without the growth of knowledge and curiosity, one is rendered incapable of divining truth. Knowledge and curiosity are extremely important to me, and although the author of this passage and I would most likely exercise our intellects in entirely different manners, we seem to be of the same mine concerning the dominance of the brain over the body; the human mind is a masterfully crafted work of art. He believes that with the mind one should search for answers, delve into secrets and concentrate on discerning the answers to life. I however, find such efforts to be, although not necessarily unimportant or useless, futile to a certain extent that we are, regardless of our incredulous ability to think, human, after all. In my opinion, mortals were not made to comprehend the choices behind our creation; the most we can do with our minds is to create ourselves, and through our creations, communicate and deliver means of improvement in society. I do ponder and write often of the philosophical questions concerning the secrets that Thoreau himself endeavored to reveal, but I find greater value employing my mind and acumen towards invention and fabrication.














matthew: I was one of the insatiables. The ones you'd always find sitting closest to the screen. Why do we sit so close? Maybe it was because we wanted to receive the images first. When they were still new, still fresh. Before they cleared the hurdles of the rows behind us. Before they'd been relayed back from row to row, spectator to spectator; until worn out, secondhand, the size of a postage stamp, it returned to the projectionist's cabin. Maybe, too, the screen was really a screen. It screened us... from the world.
--from the dreamers
i recommend that you watch it. one of my favorites.










i think about the future and it's frightening. the glory and wonder of it is fading, terror increases, inch by angry inch. there is fear because i see myself alone.


.