King of Philosophers

Let me be clear to the point of being rude and brutish.

I am the King of Philosophers. Before me, there is none who can compare—and those who come after, shall live in my shadow.

In me lives Christ and the Christian spirit. I am like the King Midas!—but everything I touch turns divine. I bless and I curse—and I take and receive, measured and deliberate.

For, I am but a servant to God. And anyone who “tries” to be philosopher—merely feeds the ego still! Long ago, did I conquer that hideous beast and integrate into my Divine self.

Everything I do at this point is free! No, it costs me nothing—nor shall I charge for my work besides the bare minimum.

And, I am the King—who made himself redundant.

Everyone has something to say! I, alone, point a finger to the one who walked the Earth without sin—here are the answers you seek!

Once, did I have thoughts and dreams of vanity! To invent my own image of an ideal—the “original man,” I called him. He, in whom one can see everyone, high and low, noble, proud, and despicable, all at once.

I imagined him Adam!—the progenitor of mankind, who formed the mold from which could be cast a Caesar or Christ. Oh, what folly, for I had it all backwards. Indeed, I fell into the same trap did Nietzsche!—to declare an Ubermensch, higher than man.

This Adam is untried and untested—who, like an infant, is innocent through no trials nor tribulations. Caesar is a man made in the steel of war and circumstance—but all-too-mortal. He does not live for eternity, but only a hungrier, leaner tomorrow.

Thus, did I resolve upon Christ alone, as the man who made no compromise.

They were right all along!—those artist heroes of mine who worshiped deep and profound.

Bach and Mozart, Shakespeare, da Vinci (sort of), and Newton. Imagine trying to be a Caesar and falling short!—for, who can replicate the man? That spot has been taken.

Yet, one can reach and reach for Christ and never reach him! And in this ocean, one may swim infinite.

In this world of art and beauty, man is equal to his tastes. Thus, is intelligence not merely equal to thinking—but to judging, weighing and balancing.

I begin with an emotion when I write—usually negative, discontent or dislike—and in my subtlest of palates I refine and untangle the various flavors, to prepare a dish to whet the appetite, not to satiate it, and to teach my reader to appreciate the nuance of this Universe!

For, there shall always be God to fall back on, and one may say, “I know not,” and nobody can hold him the lesser without revealing his own insecurity.

Can you imagine judging another!—not an idea, or an action, but a soul? Oh, my pitiful word…

Each of us is a soul unique, hand-crafted, and irreplaceable—and what shall you do with yourself if you damage one? What makes you so great, anyhow, who are just as mortal?

Oh, and I woke up early, and my alarm rings, so I must cease…