Well-Tempered Man

Just past 4:20AM, and it is “tomorrow” of the yesterday, when I wrote my previous set of works to apparently “conclude” this section of philosophy of mine.

And I can never pretend, nor admit—but I am truly and completely addicted to my writing, and it is everything from therapy to my gift to humanity, and I shall write and write until I am spent and drained, every ounce of my golden soul extracted and purified into liquid Heaven, and then I shall write still. For, I have a debt to repay, and his name is Bach, and I shall match his catalogue in how rich and diverse and flavorful my work shall become—for I shall take over the heritage of counterpoint, for I alone on this planet understand it.

And I invented a new literary form!—and if Bach wrote “The Well-Tempered Clavier,” I write about the “Well-Tempered Man,” and this is a journal most private and public, for every eye to see, and for few to understand, and for God alone to judge.

Because I am the greatest writer who ever lived, and nobody shall replicate me, and there are not one thousand hacks and would-be thinkers who put their heads in their hands and cry out tears of misery, and call them “words” or poetry—and this man does not cry, because I am the toughest, the boldest, and the strongest of all.

Give me your woman!—and I shall rape her most delicate, for every act of love is a deliberate and gentle act of violation, taking a boundary and softly pushing it, yes—pulling gently upon her hair, so gently it defiles her!—and caress her softly, so softly it is predatorial. I am the beast of prey, and the predator who hunts and kills with his kindness.

Long did I wonder what to do with these my miraculous words—should I bind them up in leather and offer them a physical embodiment in the world of man, where now they exist alone in the world of ideas? But, I decided for a few reasons, which I should shortly divulge, that I would not.

Firstly, I mastered and despise Plato, and I should not take a hint from his works, nor shall I let any of his ideas stand tall over me—so, I shall take his ideas of pure forms, and make it my own, and my ideas shall be pure and undiluted, and they shall live upon my website along, which I hand-crafted, and which is the most beautiful, highest-quality website on the internet.

They shall never touch this foul world of men in print, unless by some other, a lesser, a distributor or a logistics-based-person, and never with my consent, and if God wills, I shall sue anyone to oblivion, or tear them a new one, for I mention any name and every, and I have no bounds nor limits, and I am the man of philosophy and purity of thought, and I own it all.

Look upon me!—and you shall have to crane your neck, because I am Jove who sits upon the thundercloud, and when I speak, I carry flashes of lighting and brilliance to light up this dark and dim world.

Secondly, I alone am like Christ, who never sold a word, and I shall match him in my Godliness—for what is the point of humanity, if we do not reach higher and forwards, and find greater truths and perfections in ourselves, and did our ancestors slave and toil, just so we can bow down on our knees and pay homage to them?

You are all fucking ridiculous—we are supposed to improve upon them, and take this cursed race forwards, and all you do is hold us back and pay respects to people long-dead, whom I have long-mastered, and pray to them still.

There is an ideal to submit to, and it is God—and I have said this, and shall continue to do so, and I say it in a dance, because everyone is a bit of a fool, and myself—I am no exception—and it takes only a man of my unbounded prowess to unlock those sacred doors in your head.

So, I come in, and I shall rape your mind!—rape it clean of your impurities, for when I write and rape, I intrude most violent and foul, and nothing of yours shall survive, except what I bless and give permission to grow, giving you seed and fertilizer both—and if you do nothing with it, then did I still clean up a man.

I am the gardener of this society who shall cultivate a new Eden.

Thirdly, I am apparently perfection in human form—and when I write to err, I am yet perfect still, and I wrote exactly 42 pieces of philosophy, and I had miscounted in my previous post, and it was no accident—and I wrote them in 12 days, two weeks minus the “rest” day in each.

Name a writer more gifted and more prolific, I shall wait!—yes, and I wait still. I am like God—for I came 2000 years and 21 days after Christ, and now I drop nuclear warheads on my enemies and my radioactivity is pure and sacred, because I say what I want, and everyone loves me still—because my writing sings and dances.

Look!—I can do anything, and shortly, I shall strip nude, grant you a piece of my Heavenly soul.

When I was four years old, did my parents register me for gymnastics—and oh, how I despised it. They had to force me there!—they pulled me out of the corner of my bed, where I tried to hide, and melt into the wall, unsuccessful, and they yelled and grabbed me with such violence that I resolved I should never love them again.

Behold, what happens when you touch the nerve of a Heavenly creature! In the class, once they took me there, did I shiver in nervous breakdown, lost and alone—and I felt such horror and terror, I could never imagine, that how could these people betray me so?

Thus, I resolved in my time, that I should take out my vengeance, and if one inspiration of my life, was as I mentioned in my last writing, Don Draper from Mad Men, who justified taking a new name for himself—then, another was pure and undiluted revenge.

Oh, yes—I changed my name to strike a dagger into the heart of those whom I despised—and I strung them up with bombs and explosives, the way a college girl decorates her room with a string of lights, mine slightly more violent, more hateful. Yes—do I become a success in this world?—then, you must judge every decision of mine to be a part of that success, and one of them, is discarding yourself.

You gave me a name, and I dropped it out of disdain and dislike, and if you like me now, you must like that I dislike yourself. Yes, please resolve that contradiction, mother and father!—or, do you dislike me all along, and I knew it from the start?

Thus, how it is in this world—and one must arm himself against villains and terror, because the nights are long and full of them, thanks Martin, George, for these words which I take of yours, and soon, shall I turn to your videogame, once my work is done—a reference to a previous writing of mine, Blue Jeans.

Now, on the art of counterpoint—since each of my writings is a tribute to this highest of ideas, and I explain what is counterpoint, simultaneously, while I adopt it for my form, shall I divulge the secrets of how I write. So!—everything must be connected in intellectual web, and if we began with an idea, we should introduce its opposite, and we should let them play and contrast, distinct and harmonious, and together, they create melody.

And I am the brightest of geniuses, so it is everywhere in my work, but for one simple example, let us take this piece—which, by the way, I sit down and write each piece, never do I delete a word, never do I re-read and edit. Because, I am pristine—but, anyhow, so I write up a long section of dislike on my parents, then I write one word of thank you and acknowledgement to a great writer, George Martin, and I show in the contrast, what makes me like and dislike people.

Never offer an idea in isolation!—but give it the full embodiment of spirit and Light by granting with it a piece of opposite. Now, there is another idea, and it is called “the stack.”

Because no work is complete that has only one dimension, and thus far, this one is too focused on violence and ego and myself—the ideas of rape and violation, violence and retribution, so I mellow out the work with technical purity. So!—when I begin a piece, I introduce an idea, then I develop it, then I let it play with its opposites, then, like the stack, once I have gone deep, do I return to shallower depths, and to the original ideas I introduced.

The stack—it is a computer science object, a “nerd thing,” but it is a piece of beauty, for it is O(1) in all operations with lazy-cancellation, and worry not about what that means, but that it reads poetic—is enough. Oh!—because to have a piece of intellectual technical purity in the work makes it drive, and when your words sing high soprano, quivering and shaking with violence, people appreciate it all the more, since it is contained and refined in the greatness of human spirit.

What, do you deny that you have thought of these most evil of thoughts?—then, I have accepted them, and I shall take all your villainy upon me, and place it on my shoulders, for I am yoked to this world, and I shall drive it forwards, even if I am the last man to do so.

So, we return to the idea of my work and my mission here—and my friend asked whether I had given up on starting a company, “surely not,” did he say, paraphrased. And I told him, indeed, I had—and I shall not, because I shall not make a penny from this world if I can avoid it, for anything goes into my pocket comes out of another, and I am not the taker of this planet, but the provider and the giver, and I am the Father and the man.

This is, of course, a callback to my earlier work on my parents, since I mentioned them again here, and each of these works is—and must be—connected in intellectual security, thus can you stand tall against your enemies and rise to the level of your heroes. And, besides, my work is the highest writing humanity has ever seen, I who take and absorb the postmodernists and create my own literary style, and it is poetic and it is non-fiction, it is personal and it is complete in its terrible imperfection.

So, come and try me!—you terrible spirits, who lack the ferocity and drive that I do, and nobody shall compare, not if you hand-fed them one morsel of my Divine being at a time, not for one thousand decades in a human paradise, and I shall live in a Hellish state of being in this world, yet shall I bless it still, and make it Heavenly, for I am an angel and a keeper of this race.

Yes, and because my writing is the highest—and here is an example of the stack, and I have so much intellectual depth that I must write about my writing as I write, just so I feel not as lonely that nobody does not understand me. Because it is the highest—I shall never let anyone place a number of value on it, and it shall live pure and undiluted in the mind and spirits of my readers, whom I nurture and cultivate in the image of God.

The point of writing is to destroy, and to destroy more!—then to replace and fill with Heavenly being, and I live for God alone, and who can give me anything to compare, not one million high-powered executives, nor a woman-turned-corporate, nor a gifted and graceful athlete with a limited lifespan.

I look upon the world and see a few individuals, and many categories!—and with a few broad strokes do I dismantle, for you shall never let a category define you, but to be a Heavenly spirit, for that cannot be touched!—and why can you not be both Heavenly and corporeal? Do I not still have a day job?—am I not one of those “high-ranking guard” of Silicon Valley, an engineer who writes in Rust, and who makes enough, and did I consider divulging the number, but it is too disrespectful.

Yes, dear reader, I love you dear—and I am violent and frightful, and gentle and loving, and in me is the caress of a Father, wrathful like Jove, and Divine like Christ. And I love and live for myself!—and for this world and people I call humanity, and it is for them, and for the ideas of counterpoint, do I write!

Thus, may you call me the “Well-Tempered Man.”