Talk of war is in the mind, war is in the mind, the mind is at war.
The world is poor. We cannot avoid losing people. There is no preparation for death. And with war comes regrets, burdens, and the lack of meaning.
Grieving.
Continue with the story of Oppenheimer, why don’t we?
There would be a word on intellectual arrogance, profound blindness from light so big it could light the night as bright as a hot afternoon.
What if you could prevent it altogether? A genius who should keep his property.
Once Oppenheimer realized that he did not understand the universe, that he couldn’t, his bomb spread grief into the universe. It etched our future and the dark clouds it left, stagnant, hang over our heads–gravity from the heart down.
Grief makes our values distinctly clear. Boom, Oscar.
He toiled with the idea that probabilities needed certainty. Why the urgency? Isn’t death final?
Doesn’t your mind get so watery when you hear about the bomb again? Where are they running to?
That’s our nature. All the appropriate chemicals.
Another war program. Kick the mind to listen. The ones who own the mind without knowing the mind.
My understanding of this zeitgeist is there is no grief in their archetype; they exploit our worst fears, worsening stress.
I anticipate beingness is also grief, so I am angry.
What we’ll create when we’re hungry.
Hell is in the afternoon.
Empathy is Poetry 