30 Days to an Almost End - Day 15

An inspiring quote

July 6th-8th 2010
A. Voltaire

     Of all that is written I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will experience that blood is spirit.
     It is not easily possible to understand the blood of another: I hate reading idlers. Whoever knows the read will henceforth do nothing for the reader. Another century of readers—and the spirit itself will sink.
. . .
     Whoever writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read but to be learned by heart. In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak: but for that one must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks—and those who are addressed, tall and lofty. The air thin and pure, danger near, and the spirit full of gay sarcasm: these go well together. I want to have goblins around me, for I am courageous. Courage that puts ghosts to flight creates goblins for itself: courage wants to laugh.
     I no longer feel as you do: this cloud which I see beneath me, this blackness and gravity at which I laugh—this is your thundercloud.
     You look up when you feel the need for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? Whoever climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness.
     Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent—thus wisdom wants us: she is a woman and always loves only a warrior.
     You say to me, “Life is hard to bear.” But why would you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening? Life is hard to bear; but do not act so tenderly! We are all of us fair beasts of burden, male and female asses. What do we have in common with the rosebud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on it?
     True, we love life, but because we are used to living but because we are used to loving. There is always some madness in love. But there is always some reason in madness.
. . .
     I have learned to walk: ever since, I let myself run. I have learned to fly: ever since, I do not want to be pushed before moving along.
     Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.

     Thus spoke Zarathustra.

30 Days to an Almost End series list

Thursday’s Thoughts - Theme: Realizations

     Dwelling and eating me inside out like maggots in disguise; I’ve had a few realizations recently.

1.   I was genuine with every inhale of ash blonde breath. Heart-wrenching tonight, it was realized wholeheartedly where you had never found me.
2.   It is possible to use someone after ties have been severed, even if no conscious thought of usage had occurred when they were originally wrung tight.
3.   There are wrong reasons and right reasons for (ab)using someone. I have not justified use with a wrong reason.
4.   My body is simply a body, although it is mine to partially do what I wish with.
5.   Vanquishing specific emotions will eternally be unfeasible, lest I self-annihilate without resurrection to complete the Übermensch show.
6.   I am the Übermensch as long as I want to be, for the ape is still within thee.
7.   Slacking on my studies wasn’t a result of a declining care for biology, instead, an escalator gallivant to the roof of attention in pursuit of a spotlight.
8.   Someone would die in place of me. My value must be high, so shall it remain and rise.

This Week’s Theme: Realizations

“Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.” - Unknown

“But egoism is more than this. It is the realization by the individual that he is above all institutions and all formulas; that they exist only so far as he chooses to make them his own by accepting them.” - John Buchanan Robinson

“Having seen and felt the end, you have willed the means to the realization of the end.” - Thomas Troward

Apples of Sodom

            No one writes songs for pussies like you.

             
            Don’t wonder—I already knew.

            Anyhow,

            We have come to the realization that I am not what you wanted

            But what you wanted to be.

            As for you—

            I could show you how special you aren’t.

            Though, you should figure it out on your own.

Zarathustra’s Prologue. Section 3. Page 12.

    “I teach you the overman. Man is something that shall be overcome. What have you done to overcome him?

    “All beings so far have created something beyond themselves; and do you want to be the ebb of this great flood and even go back to the beasts rather than overcome man? What is the ape to man? A laughingstock or a painful embarrassment. And man shall be just that for the overman: a laughingstock or a painful embarrassment. You have made your way from worm to man, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now, too, man is more ape than any ape.

Today my realization was the following—

   When in my prime, I’m forced to the pedestal with a choice: pride or dive.

   Pushed me to the brink of madness, with the options upon cystalline presentation: gloat freely in retaliation, destroy me in dissociation, or gaze into the abyss for it longs to gaze into you, of desperation.

On the Epic of Pathetic

     They’re hard, it’s life. Sometimes they end badly, rarely goodly—what’s left? Uncertainty. Perhaps from one end, hardly ever both. Loose ends? I’m unsure. My tightrope isn’t unraveling.

     Almost piteous, never angry. I hate to see crumbs when there wasn’t a reason to crumble.

     Break-ups. They’re hard, it’s life.

But it is never, ever ever ever, over. (:

This is the desolate unsharable instead by fours...

     Imagine the discredit I’d charge.
     Project the unbelievable and ultimate betrayal to the biggest thing I’ve ever known onto me on the personal, intellectual level of the preeminent masochist.
     I’d drown in the debt.

     When I jump you jump with me and we collide together again, my antilover. I’d have to break my human laws to escape you, you’d annihilate me if I didn’t protect my body and everybody with me. In that event resisting the horizon, what’s bigger and better for me? You, or the mistress of my thievery?
     I feel as if I’m wronging you, but what if you meet the love of your life and you’re already aboard a ship? Are you supposed to just let them pass you by without cannon blasts of your amour? I’m hurtling through, gazing with wonder and amazement, but… all I have is you.

     Loathing will grow, boredom will mount. Do you want me to be disgusted by you like I already am of so much of the spectrum, not system? I care too much, but, I do love you… I just love you in another.

     I’m sorry if our affair ends. I’m sorry for us, not me or not you. We’ve had a great run and who’s to say the finish line is going to be the break in our tightrope?

     Do not shed a tear and you will not become the tear.

Fifteen in the Sun

(From www.MansonWiki.com) 

     Over and over again in my head, the breathy lyric, “Yesterday everything I thought I believed in died, but today is my birthday.” I’m taking this in a different light than how I assume Manson intended it for himself. Allow me to explain.

     Darkness encompassed my yesterday, in a way I believed to be impossible. I didn’t predict my love for another clouding my true love of biology and cosmology to the length of existing nearly in oblivion.
     While drowning in the love I had fallen into, I was never caught in my love affair with the sciences. My love of another human being was a great muse and inspiration to care more for life in its entirety and my personal passions in their individuality. However, I never considered the consequences of letting that person in deep, for them to suddenly leave me under any circumstances—even those that may be justified.
     I learned my lesson, I learned about loss, and it hardly took forever. Now it’s my time to go under, I can only hope from the opinions of others—that I shouldn’t even care about—that I didn’t wait too long before gripping life’s reigns again and taking control of the only thing I can: myself.

     In this way, today is my birthday. I don’t think this is what he meant by the Death and Resurrection Show, although, maybe he meant it for himself… maybe he didn’t consider that it would apply for me too. Well, my rebirth will be different. The arsenal isn’t the same, I’ve been stocking up for a millennium, it feels. I am the motherfucking cosmos today, and nothing’s going to stop me from colliding into every other galaxy I know. I am everything, everything to me. I am driving into the sun because I am the motherfucking sun.

Monday’s Excerpts – Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche

     At the precipice of breaking my solace was Nietzsche, how deeply the philosophy has become a piece of my mind is paramount to anything I’ve been enlightened by before. I am inspired by the trusted influential, and this I trust.

This Week’s Book: Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche

Part Two: The Free Spirit. Section 26.
Every superior human being will instinctively aspire after a secret citadel where he is set free from the crowd, the many, the majority, where, as its exception, he may forget the rule ‘man’ – except in the one case in which, as a man of knowledge in the great and exceptional sense, he will be impelled by an even stronger instinct to make straight for this rule. . . . (Page 57)

—————

Part Two: The Free Spirit. Section 29.
Few are made for independence – it is a privilege of the strong. And he who attempts it, having the completest right to it but without being compelled to, thereby proves that he is probably not only strong but also daring to the point of recklessness. He ventures into a labyrinth, he multiplies by a thousand the dangers which life as such already brings with it, not the smallest of which is that no one can behold how and where he goes astray, is cut off from others, and is torn to pieces limb from limb by some cave-minotaur of conscience. If such a one is destroyed, it takes places so far from the understanding of men that they neither feel it nor sympathize – and he can no longer go back! He can no longer go back even to the pity of men! – (Pages 60-61)

—————

Part Nine- What is Noble?. Section 272.
Signs of nobility: never to think of degrading our duties into duties for everybody; not to want to relinquish or share our own responsibilities; to count our privileges and the exercising of them among our duties. (Page 210)

Books finished this past week...
★★★☆☆ Island by Aldous Huxley
★★☆☆☆ Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang by Chelsea Handler
★★★☆☆ Brave New World Revisited by Aldous Huxley
★★★☆☆ Girl Coming In for a Landing by April Halprin Wayland
★☆☆☆☆ After the Death of Anna Gonzales by Terri Fields

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

Nietzschean Love;

 

Part Four: 
Maxims and Interludes. 
Section 102.

To discovered he is loved in return ought really to disenchant the lover with the beloved. ‘What? She is so modest as to love even you? Or so stupid? Or – or –.’

Nietzschean Love of Marilyn Manson's Toll

    It’s been a long road of speculation coming, I’ve finally arrived at my clearest interpretation of what Manson has been trying to say. His love albums aren’t about love of another, they’re about love of oneself! Surely, inspired by love, there’s little denial in that, no matter how much or how little was cut cut cut into video-shaped stars.
    Manson was correct in titling Evan Rachel Wood his muse; she’s the center of his all, the proof lies in the 150+ times he cut his face and hands trying to get a hold of her, and never being able to reach the sun. Thus, he went under!

    His face has always been his highest form of identity, he was destroying himself in every fabrication of his image. I dare say the mutilation of his reluctantly available realities was not only sincerely explicit and alarming, but somewhat flattering to his altars. We must always consider one’s bent knees to our prideful ego. Thus he went under.

    His hands hold his creation, distrusting, they amused themselves by features unbeknown to him as a reliable option of creativity, and they weren’t. He couldn’t grip his own fingers, because he waited too long. If you’re writing in blood, you have to be able to hold the cup below the drain. Thus he fell under.
    He couldn’t reach her, thus he couldn’t reach within himself to untangle his unraveling tightrope of and by cut up hands. Thus he fell under.
    What is a man to do, a mensch without his über propelling him mightily forward? Bravery can demolish the naturally weak with the ease of Castle Rock’s flying boulders, and it’s no aid that we are all naturally, relatively, weak. We are all days of the week and few of us are Saturdays— but who’s to name the strongest?
    Depending on where you are in the world, the week’s end meets an insignificant weak end. We’re spiraling Yahtzee dice; the heart, our hideously rigged red cup. This is where the heart guides the hand, don’t skip the drain.

    This is my romanticism of self; he didn’t have her utmost and outright. He can hardly love himself because he’s over any normal conception. “The death of me” shall be the birth of a new five or six star, lest I gaze gaze gaze unto the fountain of abysmal black blood. For me, there sparkles my going under.

    Like Nietzsche, I ramble rave and rabble, like Nietzsche I probably allow myself too much credit, like Nietzsche I will likely go insane. From birth or from today, there exists no dichotomy of self. My destruction will be all the same!

The Lakeview Theory

    It seems I had it right (write) from the relative start of this page. Lingering on 1e rests “Ground Zero,” and in case you forgot let me refresh the Pensieve: “The greatest position of control would be using past abusings for my heART.”

    Unkillable; this is me, thus I spoke. Are we not all but less illustriously wordy Zarathustras? I receive the highest honor today and forever always after, although it’s my fault for always ripping it from myself. The possibility of triumph rears its head today.

    I can do this because I can do anything. “The descent had destroyed me, and yet, I lived.” Ravenously I shall return, divine and avenging myself, my committing to revenge upon my “brothers” of equal capability and political opportunity. This handicap has made me more.

    By crippling by venom wings you still-birthed a new five star that I will transfigure to the six letters of my name, and! I am not half-price or on sale. My only clearance is the destruction of my demons, doppelgänging as the ironic dichotomy as the death of you. I will gaze at you—no! I will glare at you, O abyss, for now you shall fear me. The greatest entity to ever live, cloaked in reds of the cosmos. I am Goldilocks today and forever after always, I am man becoming the Übermensch one playful skip of a knitted knot at a time. I shall make the Hiltons hang their heads in shame, I will clutter my Monopoly world with black future paint.

    And now, I’d like to take you with me.

Happy 40th Birthday Daddy

-~-~-~-

     It’s strange, when it comes to the crossing of your borderline, things come to pass with little ease; the meat shipments less raw overall. I respect you as an Übermensch, how could I not quiver by the possibility of your inspectional judgment? However, thank you for severing your arms for me all the times you did, and I imagine will again. Thank you for allowing me the opportunity of striving to weave my own tightrope with your sharpened bones. And thank you for trusting me to dance across it without a fear.

-----

Withheld and the Übermensch

     I’m still wearing you even though I’m angry with myself. I wish I knew how to tell you all the things I feel I need to, but perhaps it’s a good thing I lack bravery in this respect because I’m not unleashing the dog you don’t deserve.
     It’s subconsciously the Epictetus thing, and now I ask: should tallies be drawn for a recorded example of my overcoming self? Am I not dangling from the tightrope, but fleeting across it with as much grace possible, save my lacking a balance beam?

     Until I cut off my arms, or until I invite someone to carve them free of my corpse, I will always be my only balance. No one will save us. No one will cross over my tightrope, or dance upon the same one. There will be no opportunity for a fellow aspiring enthusiast to toss me a piteous beam.
     If we throw our beams we sacrifice our axis. We need an arm to sever one off, and what’s the use of a single thrown arm disproportionate to my own? I will always be my only balance, always?

-~-~-~-

Thursday's Thoughts - Theme: Tightropes

     Since reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra last month, I’ve been captivated by the concept of man as a tightrope. It floods my senses on a constant basis, the vision of men dancing across ropes is something I can’t dispel.

     I’ve taken to “heart” what Nietzsche has shared with the still-man standing. Nietzsche has inspired me to shove myself in the direction I previously misunderstood, though so longingly desired.

     I squandered about the grounds ravenously, scouring for growing seeds to ride past the mountaintops. I denied that I wasn’t going to someday randomly mount a beanstalk, no matter how long I raped the world.

     The tightrope has strung itself across my recent work, though the majority of it I haven’t yet shared on COSA18. It’s encryption into my brain will become clearer and clearer as time goes on. Some truths you just cannot shake.

     Zarathustra, however, beheld the people and was amazed. Then he spoke thus:

     “Man is a rope, tied between beast and overman—a rope over an abyss. A dangerous across, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous shuddering and stopping.

     “What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not an end: what can be loved in man is that he is an overture and a going under.

     “I love those who do not know how to live, except by going under, for they are those who cross over.

- Thus Spoke Zarathustra

This Week's Theme: Tightropes

“The leader can never close the gap between himself and the group. If he does, he is no longer what he must be. He must walk a tightrope between the consent he must win and the control he must exert.” - Vince Lombardi

“In this day and time, with no competition you are really walking a tightrope. I mean you may think that no competition is good, but in reality no competition is really bad.” - Jerry Lawler

“Being on the tightrope is living; everything else is waiting.” - Karl Wallenda

The Tumult Centre

    I’m not doing any of this for anyone but myself, that’s what hurts us the worst.
    I can never be good enough for another person until I’m good enough for myself, plus, maybe I don’t care about you as much as who I’m really trying to impress. Until I allow myself genuine credibility, opinionated vices are dead to my world.

    I can’t hear you, below, from so high up on my tightrope. The turbulence is making it harder to balance, sometimes we wobble and we have to temporarily cut off our own arms just to survive. I’m not sure you’ll ever understand what it feels like to be faced with an entirely personal question; you would have to stand before you could run.
    Clinging to your vicarious fear may be saving you now, but I promise — not for long. Relativity will be your brown fox, you lazy dog. Take a leap-of-faith into the unknown, lest you reflect your forecast of the abyss unto the rest of us the unrest.

My Worth of Love & Credibility

     I wrote something last night that was entirely word-painting, -mapping, -etc... I’m not even sure what to call it, but it's a downpour of my “heart.” If anything is to wholly represent my current skill of word-painting and what I can do when creatively stricken by an unhealthy overabundance of conscience; let the following be my flying white flag.

     This is a true step towards what I want to become. I can’t get much more vulnerable than this, without cutting myself open.

Written in three intervals between the hours of 2 and 3 AM, the morning of March 1st, 2010.

Part One
    It could be said that because I’m constantly asking myself in a disgusted tone, “What the hell are you doing with yourself that’s worth anything, Alexis?” that I’m on the right track to becoming something worthy of breathing.
    No matter how what goals I meet or how loved I feel, the same question tumbles in my mind on a constant rotation of rationally assumed skewed axis. I feel sub par to what I envision I could accomplish if I just pushed myself marginally harder, and I feel unloved to the utmost degree, at certain times because I reject it. This doesn’t come from ignorance, I believe, although it very well could and might. Though, from my selfish perspective, it’s coming from the flip sides of what it means to ignore.
    Admittedly, I’m ignoring my accomplishments and ignoring what love I do receive. We accept the love we think we deserve, perhaps the two intertwine and exists as an explanation for why I feel so unworthy and unloved. It sort of makes sense, in an Alexis-going-insane-and-terrified-of-abandonment-without-a-future kind of way.

    I know I’m trying to be superwoman because I’m walking on my finely wrung tightrope. I’m not sure what to do other than be scared as hell for what might happen next. I could be annihilated, devastatingly so on my own accord. It’s just terrifying trying to keep my eyes open to the darkness with my ever-existing blind spots.

Part Two
    My drive has reached its exit, my GPS has landed, my lighter has been extinguished. My  borrowed Nabokovianism has flickered out.

    I’ve reached the point of lacking sight of purpose in writing by means of releasing the floods of emotion welled up behind my drying dams. No matter what there’s going to be a “Fuck you” scrawled on my stones, and no one’s got the time to rub them out. More importantly, no matter what I do tonight, I will sleep eventually. Maybe not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, but eventually.
    I will wake up and it will be “okay,” relatively speaking in the sense of I will still be breathing.
    Thankfully, the world doesn't regard on whether or not I deserve to.

Part Three
    If I’m resentful of writing, why do I feel like I’m going to explode at any moment with a rainbow of metaphors?
    “What am I truly upset with?”; that's the question I should be asking myself right now. Am I bothered by my mental core, or my personified sea of red? If the latter, I’m letting it affect my psyche. It’s tearing me down and clogging my skin. I risked getting cut further open from my willing slit. Initially I meant it, presently I still love you.

    I’m scared of showing people I hurt myself over them, I’m afraid they'll assume they know what's best for me and then abandon me. I’m terrified of being left. Why does everyone believe they know what's best for me? I wonder what makes my judgment so mute.

Monday's Excerpts - Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by Walter Kaufmann

     If I had read Thus Spoke Zarathustra years ago when my dad first recommended to me, I wouldn't have gotten nearly as much out of it as I did with my first reading in the past two weeks. Likely, I would have misinterpreted most if it as garbage not worth reading or taking seriously. Zarathustra was far more than I had anticipated, and I'm glad I put it off for so many years to fully appreciate now.

     When I finished Zarathustra, I was left speechless. It all wrapped up so wonderfully, a true story came from what I thought - up until the absolute final page - was just a book of aphorisms slapped together by a man that had his concepts about life fairly well put together. However, all of these so-thought random maxims  flawlessly weaving together made the entire concept of the Übermensch complete and believable.
     I want to say more, but I don't want to spoil anything, so I will say this; Thus Spoke Zarathustra is truly an experience for any human being trying to climb over their own head.

This Week's Book: Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by Walter Kaufmann

     Whoever writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read but to be learned by heart. In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak: but for that one must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks—and those who are addressed, tall and lofty. The air thin and pure, danger near, and the spirit full of gay sarcasm: these go well together. I want to have goblins around me, for I am courageous. Courage that puts ghosts to flight creates goblins for itself: courage wants to laugh.

     I no longer feel as you do: this cloud which I see beneath me, this blackness and gravity at which I laugh—this is your thundercloud.

     You look up when you feel the need for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? Whoever climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness. (Pages 40-41)

—————

     In your children you shall make up for being the children of your fathers: thus shall you redeem all that is past. . . . (Page 204)

—————

     “Whoever praises him as a god of love does not have a high enough opinion of love itself. Did this god not want to be a judge too? But the lover loves beyond reward and retribution. (Page 261)

Books read this past week...
★★★★★ Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by Walter Kaufmann

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

Nietzsche's "Upon the Blessed Isles" & Marilyn Manson's "Organ Grinder"

     I'm currently reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra, and I noticed some wording similarities in "Upon the Blessed Isles" and the song "Organ Grinder," by Marilyn Manson. (Lyrics in sidebar of video.) It could be me simply looking for similarities because "Organ Grinder" is my favorite song, but this should be fun to write up regardless of whether it's convincing or not.

Upon the Blessed Isles

     God is a thought that makes crooked all that is straight, and makes turn whatever stands.

"I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey"

     From my understanding, becoming the overman is about surpassing humanity. Often, humans are associated with monkeys, although we are more closely related to apes. Regardless, it could be in relation. If Manson has become the overman, perhaps he can do the opposite of "God" by making all crooked things straight; a straight fact. The fact being humans are closer to apes than monkeys, but making it alright to use the metaphor of a monkey because he can turn all things crooked straight if he wanted to.

     God is a conjecture; but I desire that your conjectures should not reach beyond your creative will. Could you create a god? Then do not speak to me of any gods. But you could well create the overman.

"I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being"

     To become anything, we must create first create it as an image, only to continue creating during the process. If we reach beyond our creative will, we could hate it. Manson could have moved too swiftly in his creation, sloppily or with more thought power than actual power by means of quick escape from what he hated, causing him to hate what he has become anyway.

Perhaps not you yourselves, my brothers. But into fathers and forefathers of the overman you could re-create yourselves: and let this be your best creation.

     There are many elements in "Organ Grinder" that seemingly relate to children and a father, on the surface of the words. I'm not sure exactly what Nietzsche meant in this part of "Upon the Blessed Isles," but from the translation I'm excerpting, the translator notes that it is about the creative life versus belief in God, "God is a conjecture." (A theory, opinion.) I wouldn't be too quick to assume this means God in the common sense, either, but who knows.

     Creation—that is the great redemption from suffering, and life's growing light. But that the creator may be, suffering is needed and much change. Indeed, there must be much bitter dying in your life, you creators. Thus are you advocates and justifiers of all impermanence. To be the child who is newly born, the creator must also want to be the mother who gives birth and the pangs of the birth giver.

"I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being"

     Like I said, I'm not sure what Nietzsche meant. Perhaps by creating the overman in our fathers and forefathers (or a metaphor of either), we can escape what we hate. (The line could have a double meaning.) By creating what we want in another, we grow to hate ourselves because we haven't applied the same things to ourselves first and foremost. Our hatred of our actions could push us onto the tightrope of finally becoming the overman ourselves, which would explain the arrogance in the rest of the song. Mentions of envy are a good sign (although I don't know what "calliopenis" means, if anything):

"Calliopenis envy from your daddy"

     Now that Manson is the overman instead - or alongside - of his "father," his "father" will act in accordance of typical jealousy when one is one-upped:

"You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear

What I say disgusts him"

     This reveals something deeper though. Manson will not hear what his "father" doesn't want to hear. By someone going first, importantly by Manson's creation, they are united (father and child, mother and child). So perhaps they are in this alongside each other. Now that Manson has become what he created his "father" to be first, Manson not only disgusts him, but:

"He wants to be me and that scares him"

     Manson has taken away what he gave his "father," in the sense that he no longer holds it alone. Even if they coexist in the same stature, it is not uncommon for someone who is matched - especially by someone who helped lift them - to soon become jealous, resentful, etc., and feel an unexplainable desire to be like them instead of like themselves. This feeling is scary, because it's a doubt of one's greatness in envy of another's. The line "What I want, what I want is just your children," could be a metaphor the "father's" desire to be the "child" (Manson).

     God is a conjecture; but I desire that your conjectures should be limited by what is thinkable. Could you think a god? But this is what the will to truth should mean to you: that everything be changed into what is thinkable for man, visible for man, feelable by man. You should think through your own senses to their consequences.

"They try to blink me not to think me

Don't want to bring me out"

     Besides the obvious word similarities, Manson could have overexerted himself in his rush to escape what he hated, causing man to attempt at not blinking, thinking, or bringing him out. His consequence - hating what he has become to escape what he hated being.

"Here is my real head, here is my real head

I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me"

     In some sort of self-preservation, Manson wears his mask to remain high above the people, to remain the overman. However, as the overman, he still has such a desire to show his "real head," that he is, in fact, the true overman, but humans likely cannot handle it. A constant war wages between the two, a walk on the tightrope of being the overman.

     Whatever in me has feeling, suffers and is in prison; but my will always comes to me as my liberator and joy-bringer.

"My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad"

     "Whatever in me has feeling, suffers and is in prison," exactly! Manson's only capable of showing us what he feels inside of his prison on the outside, his skin; his prison's skin. I wouldn't doubt that Manson viewed it as an "eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad," either. Hasn't he downed himself before in such a manner, anyway? I'd imagine he believes everything he is and has created is an eyesore to some degree, he might still hate what he became what he has to - of course - escape what he hated. (Or did during the PoaAF era, at least.) Whatever he created would never be exactly like what's dwelling within his prison either, rendering it a mirror of creation by means of escape, yet through his willed creation, a sketch pad of what he truly wanted. (We see in the mirror what we truly are, but if we draw ourselves we draw what we feel we are on the inside. Beautiful, skinny, etc.)

"I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me

Here is my real head"

     Manson's creative will liberates him and brings him joy, despite everything else he has done by creative escape. His creative will pushes him to wear the mask, while simultaneously rearing his real head. It might not create an overabundance or balance of happiness, but it's enough for what he's doing and what he's become. Manson ends the song with these two lines, a final liberation. The song is free and finished.

     But my fervent will to create impels me ever again toward man; thus is the hammer impelled toward the stone. O men, in the stone there sleeps an image, the image of my images. Alas, that it must sleep in the hardest, the ugliest stone! Now my hammer rages cruelly against its prison. Pieces of rock rain from the stone: what is that to me? I want to perfect it; for a shadow came to me—the stillest and lightest of all things once came to me. The beauty of the overman came to me as a shadow. O my brothers, what are the gods to me now?

Becoming the Übermensch

“This Übermensch would be an artist, scholar, lover, and philosopher. He would do what most people only dream of doing. He would test himself and his vision against the strength of the world.” – Eric Dontigney

    Having things be known is very important to me, even if someone doesn’t accept what I say as truth or an option of truth. I know my message has a high probability of remaining in the back of their head, waiting to rattle around again if brushed against in the future by similar speculation, thoughts, reminiscence, or physical situations. If allowed in their head by either warm or reluctant invite, I am like an extra conscience, or I am like a god that affects the thoughts of its believers and typically its skeptics too.

    Belief from opposite party means very little when I express to others my opinions of something, whether based on fact or speculation. Varying in topics from myself, them, relationships of our own or outside parties, politics, science, religion, morality, sexuality, etc. They don’t have to believe me when I proclaim that I’m going to go to college and create myself into a revolution of my cause. However, I will not allow them to step on me and bellow down to my place in the dirt that I won’t achieve greatness. When futile attempts to degrade me to a worm occur, I refuse to not be heard. They can shout in my face all the want with angry backlash, but I have risen from my premature grave that they’ve so wrongly dug me. The point is they’ll have to shout their disagreements at my face, their attempts at hanging me askew in mimic of a ‘degenerate’ piece of art to make their job a bit easier quickly be annihilated. If someone feels they must push me, they must feel I am stronger than they are. Why would anyone want less of a challenge if they saw equality or greatness in their opponent?

     If they do not fear me, they are so poorly mistaken at exactly what they are dealing with. I’m not some extraordinary being that was born an Übermensch. The difference between me and the majority of other people walking upon the same planet is that I recognize the power that is just begging to be unlocked from within. It shouts my name louder than any vocal cord every could, be it man’s or beast’s or a – presumably in this case – non-fictional god’s. It would be disgustingly wrong, crude, and a slew of other immoralities to myself to not grant its wishes for freedom. It simply desires liberation from its barred cell, I can sympathize. The truly magnificent thing is how intricately simple it is to break the lock.

     No matter who you are, it will never be easy to be the change you wish to see in the world, it will never be easy to become an idea as opposed to a simple human being, it will never be easy to sacrifice things, if not everything. Ease and simplicity are two entirely different spectrums, they require the respect they absolutely deserve to exist apart.

     My path will never be easy because I chose long ago to take the road of greatness. I want to stride alongside the beaten path of those I have allowed the honor of influencing me, and I dearly hope other precious people will allow me the highest human honor of being influential. They will re-humanize me, when I am nothing of the sorts! In that light, by their greatness, acceptance, trust, and love, I will finally become a Saint.