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Guess my type by my writing: INFP, ISFP or something else.

OptoGypsy

Member
Joined
Dec 13, 2013
Messages
703
MBTI Type
isfp
Enneagram
594
Instinctual Variant
sp/sx
Human nature is like walking among trees under the blue moon stumbling upon a bulging deer at the river bed next to the raging currents, the deer is barely alive, a weeping willow towers over it and out bursts several rats creating a crater running in a scattered pace in several different directions towards nevermore. Vultures come from the silhouettes to devour the carcass. I contemplate what it means to be human in the pits of sheol as I stare in amazement and bewilderment at the eternal vacuum that is the soul. What is human nature, what is its function, why is it misunderstood? Join me as I shine a light behind the shadows to reveal the beasts lurking there. Life is hard and people are difficult, I will stand up with the mythical gods of life and death and explore the time continuum that is the confines of my heart.

I’m sitting in the office, there is a fish tank with a gold fish looking upon the office with its dull eyes, contemplating the complexity of life, an air head of simple proportions. It is now swimming at random like a chicken without its head, it looks as if it is intoxicated, as if it is swimming in a goblet of wine, bumping into the dirty glass, as if to break through the glassed prison

In my world God is the red queen, the devil is the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter is the saint of time, I stroll through the fabric of reality with my bestie the ever-vanishing Cheshire, unsure of my own existence. Yet the eternal flame of my imagination helps me escape as I stroll through wonderland. Wonderland is a place to see ones idealized potential, and to be liberate through a gap in society, the rabbit hole is everyone’s biggest fear, yet it is the most liberating furnace for the spirit.

Beauty escapes my eyes as I gaze upon the long-winded night. Stars beam at the trees with their stalking shadows and they beam at the howling of the schizophrenic, homeless man as he looks upon the moonlight shadow on the raging river. Who is the one who brought this out of nothingness and left me to ponder on the chance of life… I don’t know, it’s like you know he created this world. If he created it so profane by making the beholder of the fruit of good and evil so seductive and Adam a boorish simpleton that Eve couldn’t help but go exploring, why is it that we should be born diseased and punished for it by the promise of death. It’s like a man who created a porn site, found the addresses of those who visited his site and then murdered them. I have a difficult time understanding this reasoning.

The church is a spacious work of art, architectural, gothic perfection. It is domed shaped, covered with red carpeting, spiral stairs leading to a choir, with colons in the back, as if it is a mansion from Athens. Golden colored stair rails go up with the spiraled stairs. The focal point is the podium, a seraph’s altar, the acoustics are perfect, a physicist perhaps helped with the building to make the best of the doppler effect. This is done through a 45-degree slope from the doors to the podium going down. Above it is three stained glasses, the first is of the virgin Mary and the baby Christ, the second is of the angels giving the good news to the shepherds and the third of the Christ with sheep, and adjacent to the stain glass is a balcony with huge windows, the moon and stars parading in bliss. It was a scene to behold, no part of me is tempted to follow in Oscar Wilde’s words “when I step in the sanctuary I take the first moment I can to escape” perhaps he isn’t the one that said it… something is missing from the scene, Elijah didn’t come, I wait upon him, and he doesn’t come, he invited me and yet doesn’t come, the dressing up all came down to nothing, he isn’t here. I do my best to listen to the sermon and what I learn from the preacher is that “God is in the soft, tender voice. The crow that visits the prophet, the angel visiting the needy, the passionate fire of the stars that set the altar in flames as Elijah proved that the benefactor of the heart is the I am, he is the nature that encompasses everything, as Blaise Pascal put it “an infinite sphere whose center in everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.” That what he wants from us is a relationship, this is done through meditating on his word and living for the benefit of others is holiness, under the wings of righteousness. To be filled with the fruits of the spirit and satisfy our spiritual hunger for something greater than us. The fruit of the spirit are love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. This gives me a new way to view God, a way that makes sense, he isn’t a papa Smurf up in the skies that is looking to punish me but the art that transcends reality, the soft voice of genius in the wind that caresses the green leaves as heavens tears glide down upon them, the tears wetting the fruits of the spirit, I pray for the first time in a long time, a simple prayer, “God if you’re there please reveal yourself to me.”

When the church beats its wings vaingloriously as another worldly fraternity in the bloody carnival of dehumanization. With the antichrist as its archangel and the Christ as its scapegoat. Karl Marx said that religion is the opium of the masses, opium has become the opium of the masses. We are all dancing protein, puppets whose strings are being pulled by nature chasing after idols in the hilarious parody that we call life. You’ll argue that I am crazy, that we have consciousness and are therefore not puppets but real people. Yes, just as Pinocchio we can become real, through allowing God to inflame our consciousness with the Holy Spirit and his discernment. Consciousness allow us to reason and perceive and the Holy Spirit allows us to transcend natures slave-master mentality, this is in my opinion the surest proof of the existence of God. We must step up and truly show Christ instead of our own agendas, otherwise we will be nothing more than puppets playing at Gods, making a mockery of the fruit of life and glorifying the fruit of good and evil. We must first recognize our own nakedness and have the way cleanse us as a holistic whole before we can have the world see the light of the kingdom of heaven


I am the slain waxen doll. The shadow of a nightingale trying to escape its empty vessel. All I wanted was to prove to myself that I am more than a walking manikin existing in the dollhouse of a three-year-old, and all I could accomplish was to consume the Leviathans pale fire. The marble is not glistening under the sun as the anonymous hand scribbles in the dark.
I swallowed up the bronze dragon as I watched the cherubs dance to Bach. I danced with the harlot witch to obtain pixie dust, to explore the nether regions of hell. I am the beetle at the wrong end of a crazed air head’s high heel. The eyes of my spirit roll so far back that blood is pouring from my eye sockets as I stare into the infinite gallows of the hanged man.


Philosophical inquiry is looking for the vanishing black cat in the back alleyway under the night sky while the heavens wink at you. It is caressing the spirits under the moonlight trance as the scientist bathes under the waterfall seeking out rays of light from the light above. The pondering of the past, present and future as the magician stumbles into the trance of timelessness. It is reaching out to the paradise of Eden as you hold the galaxies upon your palm like a teardrop from heaven. It is the creativity in the creation of the tower of Babel and in the destruction of Athens. It is biting from the tree of good and evil in search of knowledge from the spirits.

The philosopher was a philosopher before he even knew what philosophy was. An introspective young boy, with a cheerful domineer for adventure, and a loud laugh that can be heard throughout the neighborhood. From a young age he was called ‘philosopher’ as he had a ponderous mind, one that couldn’t help but ponder on the mysteries of the Bible, the complexities of God’s personality, the paradox of mercy and justice coming into one, supreme being, and the subtle cleverness of the prince of lies and his wolf pack of clever deceivers. He pondered and pondered on the inconsistencies of omnipresence, omniscience, how can one know all from alpha to omega, yet have wrath when people disobey, the beauty of freedom in allowing choice through the planting of the delicious fruit from the tree of good and life, and hungering for the tree of life, the philosophical stone which crux was in the cross. He felt that it all came together through the concept of the spirit, but what is the spirit, what is consciousness and what sends us to ponder on the mysteries of life. He was a clever child, one of exuberance and yet the seriousness of a logician. He believed that the spirit is seen in death and it is the transfiguration of the flesh into a new being, the madness that brought chaos into the cosmos, the stream of consciousness into fluid thought, he as a child couldn’t express it in those words but he felt it intuitively, the spirit was the dancing of particles that form the bane of thought, the filtering of the angels versus the demons, the running thoughts that come from the neurons interacting with one another, and synapses directing the senses into action. Dancing particles creating a white aurora like breath in the cold of night.
 

Pionart

Well-known member
Joined
Sep 17, 2014
Messages
4,039
MBTI Type
NiFe
Ne+Si, emphasis on the Ne. Largely speaks in abstractions and historical references.

Fi+Te. I sense internal Feeling principles, as well as explicit logic.

Due to starting off the writing with metaphor, and then moving to the self, I would guess ENFP.


I'll have a look through your posts later today and see if I'm correct.

(actually I can't do that today because the search function still isn't working)
 

OptoGypsy

Member
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Dec 13, 2013
Messages
703
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isfp
Enneagram
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Instinctual Variant
sp/sx
Thank you, any idea concerning my enneagram tritype and instinctual variant. My previous posts from before this year came from immature manic times, here is some more writings which may or may not change your opinion:
. He expressed this to the scientist one sunny day, at the park next to the scientist’s house. The philosopher sat on the gravel while the scientist was doing pull ups on the monkey bars, next to the flower beds of yellow tulips, orange, red and yellow roses and green bushes whose leaves glistened to the reflection of the sun. The two met in class earlier that year and came together as friends in their curiosity for knowledge, their love of reading, and other shared interests. From what I remember they were in the sixth grade and had just entered junior high school. This was the first time they met outside of the school. The philosopher for the last several months spent time trying to get the scientist to accept the power of imagination instead of just cold facts, and it was working, the explaining of his idea concerning the spirit especially inspired the scientist. The scientist asked the philosopher, “how does one go about seeing the spirit, how does one conduct a science experiment to prove the existence of the spirit?” The philosopher responded by saying “to see the spirit I believe that we must have a lower being overcome and kill a higher being, such as a mouse kill a cat, and at the point of death we will be able to see the spirit.” The scientist asked, “how will we go about doing this?” The philosopher told him that we must inject steroids into the mouse, put them in a gated area and watch a death match between the two, this is of course animal cruelty. They used kitchen and cleaning appliances to create homemade steroids, they were truly chemists, and intellectuals that put their action into plan. The mouse killed the cat, and then died shortly afterwards but there was no seeing the spirit. The scientist fell into disappointment and asked the philosopher why he didn’t see it. The philosopher speculated that perhaps it can only be done if we do the experiment on humans. Perhaps through the concept of beauty, jokingly said “If you want to see the spirit you need to find an ugly man, make a monster out of him like Frankenstein’s monster, and do the experiment with beautiful women, women that are a ten, have the monster have sex with the women and kill them, while this is happening you the scientist should make fun of them while holding a camera up, but don’t do this because if you do in the process you’ll fall into madness, and only in that state of mind will you see their spirits.” The scientist in a serious expression asked, “what will happen then?” The philosopher expressed that “you will fall into madness and will want to commit suicide for what you’ve done.” The scientist was in love with the philosopher and made it his goal to prove the philosopher’s theory and asked, “how do I go about luring the girls?” The philosopher told him without realizing his intent, “lure them in with the promise of sex, and promise them that they will see the philosopher who will share the secrets of heaven with them, make them sign a long agreement that they will not want to read to keep yourself from getting in trouble,” and added “it should take place in a haunted house.” The scientist becoming more curious of this strange talk ponders and asks, “how would the suicide be committed?” The philosopher in jest says “it will be in way that symbolizes his life transcending him into the stratosphere of the infinite and making him into a God, like in the crucifixion of the mad man that preached the truth, undermined Rome and rebelled against the Jewish institution. I believe that if you were to do this then you will make money by creating a new porn industry through the production of snuff videos, create a spirit by knowing its properties, so the money, the spirit and the scientific research should be present at the death scene to symbolize the life that went against the institution of this world. The means to go about it would be an overdosage of heroine to symbolize the madness, the room should be decorated with mountains of it, and you should have both middle fingers out and your tongue sticking out in rebellion against the Earth and it institutions, this will transfigure you into a God and you can say as Skovoroda did ‘the world tried to catch me and could not.’” “I don’t understand” the scientist responded, “will I be going against the church and how is this going against the world.” The Philosopher shared with him that this is the secret of Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, “you will transcend the church by rebelling against God through rebelling even though you came with the mathematical proof that proves his existence, you will become all too human,” the philosopher winks at the scientist. The philosopher’s mom came to pick him up and the scientist went home with the birth of a new obsession.
He did it, the scientist at the age of seventeen went through with it and it went as the philosopher had foreshadowed it, the outcome came as the philosopher said it would. He felt religious ecstasy every time he saw a spirt, and felt like God himself when he created the spirit. The scientist survived the suicidal attempt and arose from cardiac arrest on the third day and was escorted to a looney bin in Chicago. The bully that was the scientist’s puppet and made into a monster was found dead. The philosopher grew up to becoming a heretic in his late teens, the spirt that the scientist created visited him in his dreams and told him that he’ll crucify him in top of his parents’ church, nailed by his middle fingers making him into a God. the philosopher woke screaming, kicking, repenting and begging God to set him free from his self-created damned chains, little did he know about the scientist’s survival due to their estrangement at the time. The intellectuals labeled the atrocious event under the psychological illness of schizophrenia, the Christians as lost souls in need of God and some even speculated that the girls went through with it for the fun of it, it’s all too human. Dear reader what conclusions may we draw about the spirit? You may be asking about yourself what is currently taking place with these young men, to make a long story short they found freedom from their bondages in the grace of Christ and becoming slaves to righteousness, it’s all too human, their spirits are all too human.
 

Pionart

Well-known member
Joined
Sep 17, 2014
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NiFe
Thank you, any idea concerning my enneagram tritype and instinctual variant.

I don't know enneagram well enough to type people in it.
 

OptoGypsy

Member
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Messages
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isfp
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sp/sx
Thanks, no worries :) Concerning being Ne dom, I'm not really an idea person, and enjoy small talk as well as scanning my environment, I used to debate theists back when I was an atheist to push their buttons and to be convinced of Theism as this is what I grew up with but couldn't make the leap of faith for years until I read Brothers Karamazov which I found Dmitry Karamazov to be relatable. I prefer one on one conversations over to group conversations, as when in a group I tend to observe and listen, while I'm really talkative during a one on one conversation, but when I do talk I'm usually talking about myself or the other person instead of talking about ideas, I do think in images, is visual thinking related to Ne?
 

Pionart

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Joined
Sep 17, 2014
Messages
4,039
MBTI Type
NiFe
Visual thinking is associated with Ni/Se.
 

OptoGypsy

Member
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So INJ? ENFP? My thinking is less visual thinking then short moments of creative bursts that have me putting words and creating metaphors in a creative way, abstract thought comes naturally to me, otherwise i'm not really thinking and instead am participating in my surroundings, which may be Ni Se, I don't really have much of an imagination as imagining pictures, movie reels in my head although i am really good at having people imagine stuff with my wordplay for example my little sister who is an intp.
 
Joined
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Messages
775
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INTJ
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-
Visual thinking may not be associated with extroverted sensation and introverted intuition only, since Se-Fi/Fi-Se can't possibly think visually. It could also be associated with introverted sensing, since Both are sensation function.

It is not easy to realize whether you think in picture or in words.
 

OptoGypsy

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sp/sx
I think in worfs

- - - Updated - - -

words
 
Joined
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775
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INTJ
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When you explain what human nature is, you seems to be conscious of quasi thing with some tought. You may have visualized human nature resembles
“walking among trees under the blue moon stumbling upon a bulging deer at the river bed next to the raging currents, the deer is barely alive, a weeping willow towers over it and out bursts several rats creating a crater running in a scattered pace in several different directions towards nevermore..”
This sentence is visualizable. We could develop further make it like a some kind of a motion picture: A person is walking. He is walking under the trees. He is walking at night, under a blue moon, and so on. This is a most likely an sentence written by psyche with Si-Te.
It style of writing is, my best guess is associated withFi-Ne/ Si-Te.

The First Sentence is Hard To Understand for Me
Unfortunately, I myself find it hard to understand the first sentence. It is too long, and a bit of run on in my opinion. I keep questioning on who walk under the trees?. I guess it may have been you the author who visualize yourself. When you began storytelling about the deer, you should have begun with a new sentence so that the sentence would be easier to comprehend.
You are most likely an INFP, not an ENFP.
ENFP best suited profession is arguably a journalist.
The Extroverted thinker-introverted sensing which is ENFP third and fourth functions are useful for arranging schedule with figures, important person with whom they are going to have an interview session. Si-Te in INFP will be best when they do some research, like Isabel Briggs Myers. Te-Si, a third and fourth function of ENFP will be naturally action oriented. They judge using thinking, and take action from it. When they arrange interview schedule with important figure like a political leader, they have to have a contact number, call the person, ask whether they are willing to have an interview session with the journalist. When the time of arranged schedule has come, they'll execute it. They take action. They meet the person and perform an interview session. Deadline in journalism is very tight. Besides interview session, they also sometimes have to attend a lot of press conferences and write up a journalistic report. They have to be a very good at arranging schedule to cope with. The energy of Extrovert thinking-introvert sensing match with the jobs demmand.
In this forum, A thread starter ENFPmale performed interview sessions with some people. May be you want to check it out.

Interviews by ENFP
He is like journalists that we may have seen on TV isn’t he? You should raise question to yourself whether you are more like a journalist or more like a novelist.
INFP best suited profession is arguably a Novelist, like Shakespeare, JK Rowling.
I hypothesize that psyche with Si-Te will be better in Statistics than any other type. The best may be an ISTJ. Isabel Briggs Myers (INFP) studied statistics with Edward Hay to develop the MBTI. Before preoccupied with MBTI, Isabel Briggs Myers won a novel competition. You should give it a try.
 

OptoGypsy

Member
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I'll describe myself. I got my associates in philosophy and my bachelors in cyber security. My favorite past time is being a provacueter, I enjoy trolling IRL. I don't view myself as a journalist or a novelist, I'd like to blog though as it is free of charge. I write and talk in the steam of consciousness style, I have often been told to think before I talk. I enjoyed statistics and enjoy systemizing thought, things and people although I do hate generalizations. I can send you the collection of what I wrote so far, my vision is to glorify God and get people thinking and feeling spiritual matters. Here are my latest writings
As I gaze into the vortex of time and space I contemplate on the endless possibilities of the child, the child in heart, the dreamer, who imagines and gets lost in time by becoming engulfed in space as the cross of martyrdom hovers over them in the night of Norte Dame. I also wrote a satirical piece for my therapist who's a Buddhist on Buddhism: As I look into the green forestry I notice the elves praying in bliss as they escape into nirvana
 
Joined
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Messages
775
MBTI Type
INTJ
Enneagram
-
I notice what Carl Jung termed introverted sensing in your writing.
Like the phrase steam of consciousness. I wonder how you imagine consciousness as steam.
It is now swimming at random like a chicken without its head. How does it mean a fish swimming like a chicken without its head? Probably you wan to storytell that it doesn't
know where to go .
It’s like a man who created a porn site, found the addresses of those who visited his site and then murdered them
You do have some aptitude in literature, which is interesting since you have no formal educational background in literature.
You are able to compose some descriptive writing,
The church is a spacious work of art, architectural, gothic perfection. It is domed shaped, covered with red carpeting, spiral stairs leading to a choir, with colons in the back, as if it is a mansion from Athens. Golden colored stair rails go up with the spiraled stairs. The focal point is the podium, a seraph’s altar, the acoustics are perfect,
Above it is three stained glasses, the first is of the virgin Mary and the baby Christ, the second is of the angels giving the good news to the shepherds and the third of the Christ with sheep, and adjacent to the stain glass is a balcony with huge windows, the moon and stars parading in bliss
.
and some Methapor
The fruit of the spirit are love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.
Beauty escapes my eyes as I gaze upon the long-winded night.
When the church beats its wings vaingloriously as another worldly fraternity in the bloody carnival of dehumanization
We are all dancing protein, puppets whose strings are being pulled by nature chasing after idols in the hilarious parody that we call life.

You have also some religious convictions which somewhat influence you in your writing. Those who aren't familiar with this may not understand you.

You are INFP in the MBTI. But may be you are not completely spiritually healthy, you have consulted a therapist. Are suffering from psychopathic conditions?

Btw, Are you a fan of Alice in Wonderland?
 

OptoGypsy

Member
Joined
Dec 13, 2013
Messages
703
MBTI Type
isfp
Enneagram
594
Instinctual Variant
sp/sx
I notice what Carl Jung termed introverted sensing in your writing.

You do have some aptitude in literature, which is interesting since you have no formal educational background in literature.
You are able to compose some descriptive writing,
.
and some Methapor


You have also some religious convictions which somewhat influence you in your writing. Those who aren't familiar with this may not understand you.

You are INFP in the MBTI. But may be you are not completely spiritually healthy, you have consulted a therapist. Are suffering from psychopathic conditions?

Btw, Are you a fan of Alice in Wonderland?

Not psychopathic but most definitely Schizoaffective Bipolar type, they are parts of a bigger story, which I can share, I definitely love Alice in Wonderland.
 

OptoGypsy

Member
Joined
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Messages
703
MBTI Type
isfp
Enneagram
594
Instinctual Variant
sp/sx
Dear reader,
My name is David Stepchuk, I am a young Ukrainian from a small city in the state of Washington. In this document I have established a vision for an off-modern narrative of the spirit of my youth, that of the circle of my community, the youth of that set to find its identity in the dance of Apollos and Dionysus, the discovering of self in a new country. I hope you enjoy what I have set forth for you my dear reader.
Human Nature
Human nature is like walking among trees under the blue moon stumbling upon a bulging deer at the river bed next to the raging currents, the deer is barely alive, a weeping willow towers over it and out bursts several rats creating a crater running in a scattered pace in several different directions towards nevermore. Vultures come from the silhouettes to devour the carcass. I contemplate what it means to be human in the pits of sheol as I stare in amazement and bewilderment at the eternal vacuum that is the soul. What is human nature, what is its function, why is it misunderstood? Join me as I shine a light behind the shadows to reveal the beasts lurking there. Life is hard and people are difficult, I will stand up with the mythical gods of life and death and explore the time continuum that is the confines of my heart.




Schizophrenia
Life is beautiful,
Beauty is in the heart,
The heart sings with springs blossoms,
I will scale down the abyss,
Of mystery and darkness,
Overcome voices and hallucinations,
Rather through faith or skepticism,
I will find an escape from my troubling past,
In the confines of my heart,
And the bliss of heavenly rejoice,
I will not fear the abyss known as Hell,
The fear that arises in darkness suffocation,
I will stand up and checkmate the Gods like Prometheus mocking Hades.




The Eden of Eve
She lives in beauty,
Like the sky of cloudless climes and starry nights,
All that’s best of darkness and light meet in her shade and in her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light which the heavens look upon with graceful eyes,
One shade the more, one ray the less had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every graceful tress or softly lightens over her face
Where thoughts are sweetly expressed
How sweet, how pure their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and over that brow,
So eloquent, yet so savage,
A smile that tells of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
Dreams are the product of our imagination, the infestations of wonderland, the creation of a neurotic butterfly. A beautiful, graceful haven for the individual. The lucid prophesies of independency. Freedom from the closed minded, and the optical illusions of jokers that try to rule and classify civilizations into generalizations. The theology of a Lewis Carrol as the Cheshire Cat haunts him in the dark with the promotion of self-choice. The salvation of mankind. The name is Alice and I’m tired of people trying to tell me that I need to be a certain way just because I was born the wrong sex. Females are not second-class citizens, witches who are penis envy as the voodoo artist Freud put it. The cursed joker was like the man who came out of the tavern with his umbrella out in a beautiful sunny evening because a divine caterpillar became distracted with her unlimited possibilities as she was watering her roses on the balcony above him. The heathens and heretics can all burn in hell for their generalizations, hail Lesya Ukrainka. I am tired, and grossed out by improper power structures, life should be merited by talent and competence and not by how we were blessed to come out of the womb. To quote Stewie Griffin “what the deuce!” I’m frustrated and tired from a long day at work and with catching up with my assignments.
A gift that’s vain, a gift by chance,
Oh, why has life been given to me?
And why have we been sentenced to death,
By the grimace of fate,
Who has called me forth from nothingness,
Filled my heart with suffering,
And disturbed my mind with anguishing doubt?
There is no hope in front of me,
My heart is empty, my mind lies unused,
And the absurdity of life torments me with anguish” Alexander Pushkin .
Beauty escapes my eyes as I gaze upon the long-winded night. Stars beam at the trees with their stalking shadows and they beam at the howling of the schizophrenic, homeless man as he looks upon the moonlight shadow on the raging river. Who is the one who brought this out of nothingness and left me to ponder on the chance of life… I don’t know, it’s like you know he created this world. If he created it so profane by making the beholder of the fruit of good and evil so seductive and Adam a boorish simpleton that Eve couldn’t help but go exploring, why is it that we should be born diseased and punished for it by the promise of death. It’s like a man who created a porn site, found the addresses of those who visited his site and then murdered them. I have a difficult time understanding this reasoning.
I attend mass once is a while, I find the chorus to be enchanting. It has me thinking of breaking a saint and snorting it as if they were angel dust. How carnivalesque, how quaint, we need another reformation within the information age, within the glorious age of memes and gifs, oh holy Christian introverts, where are you kitties. May the real Martin Luther and John Calvin please stand up, I wish to quote Tweety Bird ‘I taw, I taw a puddy tat.’ I long for the sacrilegious, to be the modern-day Eve, and have the entire world eating the fruit of good and evil. How entertaining it will be if everyone was to be self-aware. This world is topsy-turvy and I simply wish that its institutions will reflect the earthly spirt, instead of hiding in banal hypocrisy. A girl can dream… I dream of running through the green pastures with the beautiful daughter of Zion, as the fairies sing beautiful songs, I wish to drink from the fountain of youth, I never want to grow up.
Life is weird, a Gogolian fantasy, a stroll through wonderland. Life is frightening otherwise, a nightmare of bureaucracy. In my world God is the red queen, the devil is the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter is the saint of time, I stroll through the fabric of reality with my bestie the ever-vanishing Cheshire, unsure of my own existence. Yet the eternal flame of my imagination helps me escape as I stroll through wonderland. Wonderland is a place to see ones idealized potential, and to be liberate through a gap in society, the rabbit hole is everyone’s biggest fear, yet it is the most liberating furnace for the spirit.
In the eternal flame of imagination, the world flips upside- down, social hierarchies invert, sexual restrictions disappear, and everyone takes off their masks to the unlimited potential of the bizarre and the surreal promise of self. Life mimics art, and art is life. In other words, staying alive is an addiction, it is having a loaded pistol in your mouth as the angels sing of the resurrection. I am of course being ironic. If God does exist, then the crux of the question is freedom, is God a liberator from groundlessness as apologists put it, or a big brother figure head that is ready to persecute us at a glance as a Hitchens would put it.
Every second a new being is born,
Every second an old being dies,
The blood of the lamb washes all,
Like a flood of Turkish delight,
What does God want as he sends in the flood of the light,
All are washed in the blood of the lamb,
Elijah is coming, restorer of the church in Zion, is coming.
I overslept this morning, missed class and had an apple piroshky, flushing it down with kvass. I’m running late to my dental appointment, my dentist is located on 334th st, across the church, the block is like a root canal that is begging to be pulled out. I’m numb just by thinking about it. My dentist is an old Russian man, he is five feet eleven, has a giant wart on his nose and carries a thorny beard that at one point had cranberry sauce stuck on it looking as if it’s made from the material that was used on the crown of thorns, he looks as if he is the son to the Baba Yaga. There is a mantle in his office that reads ‘an oak is a tree. A rose is a flower. A deer is an animal. Russia is our fatherland. Death is inevitable.’ According to him it’s from a Russian Grammar textbook from the early 1800’s. I’m sure that I saw a bottle of Smirnoff in his office, this is all so reassuring, I get queasy just thinking about him using razor sharp tools inside my mouth. I can’t afford anything better at the moment as I don’t have insurance. At least I’m not getting my teeth pulled out by a druggie in some alleyway that uses meth as an anesthesia. As the old saying goes ‘count your blessings, as there’s always worse’, and to quote the optimistic, Christian philosopher Leibnitz ‘we live in the best of all possible worlds.’
I’m sitting in the office, there is a fish tank with a gold fish looking upon the office with its dull eyes, contemplating the complexity of life, an air head of simple proportions. It is now swimming at random like a chicken without its head, it looks as if it is intoxicated, as if it is swimming in a goblet of wine, bumping into the dirty glass, as if to break through the glassed prison. Across the room is sitting a handsome, Byronic man, he seems to be of my age. He is tan, has high cheekbones, if I was to slap those cheekbones I would cut myself and he is sporting a trench coat, a Holmes Figure. He is brimming of mystery. A mysterious figure, a tall figure, someone that looks as if he is straight from a romantic novel or from the daydreams of a girl who is dressing up her dolls, dressing them up for the ball to impress the well-mannered suitor. He walks towards me in beautiful strides, and asks if he can sit by me, I of course give him the permission to do so. He says in a deep voice “my name is Elijah”, I give him my name in a soft, timid voice, I’m in rapture. He then goes on to tell me that he goes to the church that’s across the street, and that they’re having youth service there tonight, he invites me over, and I accept his offer, only to be able to see him again. The receptionist calls me over as it is my turn to see the dentist, before I go, he looks me in the eyes, with his gorgeous, big blue eyes and asks me for my number, I give it to him. As I walk into the room, I ponder on why didn’t I tell him that I am a non-believer. I’m having second thoughts on attending church tonight. He texts me as I sit on the reclining gray chair awaiting the dentist, we have a lengthy conversation, I end up telling him that I am a nonbeliever who grew up in a church, attended a Christian school and that I find religion to be disagreeable. He tells me that he would love to discuss things further in person, and that he would love it if I came, that the congregation loves it when a nonbeliever walks in the church and that several of his friends were once in a similar position that I am now in. I tell him that I am different from them but since he is so persistent in my coming that I will attend the service. The appointment was quick, thank God! I can’t wait to see Elijah again. I’m thinking of going with the baby blue dress or the raven skirt and the angelic white blouse. I’ll go with the blouse, the skirt and the black high heels as it compliments my maroon lip gloss. I will be in childish exuberance if Elijah sings songs of praises towards me as Adam did when he first saw Eve, standing amongst the roses, even if it is internally done it will feel eternal, timeless.
The church is a spacious work of art, architectural, gothic perfection. It is domed shaped, covered with red carpeting, spiral stairs leading to a choir, with colons in the back, as if it is a mansion from Athens. Golden colored stair rails go up with the spiraled stairs. The focal point is the podium, a seraph’s altar, the acoustics are perfect, a physicist perhaps helped with the building to make the best of the doppler effect. This is done through a 45-degree slope from the doors to the podium going down. Above it is three stained glasses, the first is of the virgin Mary and the baby Christ, the second is of the angels giving the good news to the shepherds and the third of the Christ with sheep, and adjacent to the stain glass is a balcony with huge windows, the moon and stars parading in bliss. It was a scene to behold, no part of me is tempted to follow in Oscar Wilde’s words “when I step in the sanctuary I take the first moment I can to escape” perhaps he isn’t the one that said it… something is missing from the scene, Elijah didn’t come, I wait upon him, and he doesn’t come, he invited me and yet doesn’t come, the dressing up all came down to nothing, he isn’t here. I do my best to listen to the sermon and what I learn from the preacher is that “God is in the soft, tender voice. The crow that visits the prophet, the angel visiting the needy, the passionate fire of the stars that set the altar in flames as Elijah proved that the benefactor of the heart is the I am, he is the nature that encompasses everything, as Blaise Pascal put it “an infinite sphere whose center in everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.” That what he wants from us is a relationship, this is done through meditating on his word and living for the benefit of others is holiness, under the wings of righteousness. To be filled with the fruits of the spirit and satisfy our spiritual hunger for something greater than us. The fruit of the spirit are love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. This gives me a new way to view God, a way that makes sense, he isn’t a papa Smurf up in the skies that is looking to punish me but the art that transcends reality, the soft voice of genius in the wind that caresses the green leaves as heavens tears glide down upon them, the tears wetting the fruits of the spirit, I pray for the first time in a long time, a simple prayer, “God if you’re there please reveal yourself to me.” After church I introduce myself to some people and ask about Elijah, they tell me that they don’t know who I am talking about. In confusion I look through my messages and see that the conversation isn’t there, there is no Elijah in my contacts. Did I succumb to my imagination or is this a move from God? Will I succumb to the cynicism of Jezebel or will I wake from my slumber and help make this world a better place? It’s as if I escaped reality in a rocket ship going through a black hole, emerging through a worm hole, immersing in wonderland, heaven is the reflection of the heart. Fin

Satan’s Argument
Hope is a terrible joke given to the masses by a Holy sage. If the messiah were indeed to return and wipe out all diseases, physical and mental, and do away with all of mans’ inhumanity towards man, then, I would know that I have been a parasite that depended on despair to function: like the October revolution of Lenin, or the McCarthy era of the red scare. The trustees, wardens, millions of officers and district attorneys whose children joyously unwrap Christmas presents under the tree bought with money earned by keeping other men from seeing their child’s face beam at a cotton angel. Who would have been without jobs if no one had ever violated the law, like the nurses, physicians, neurological surgeons, employees on the roof of the hospital ready to jump because the blind can see, the deaf can hear, and the lame can walk. The dust would gather on all the people who hold that higher spiritual calling of serving humanity, for their status had depended upon intellectual dishonesty. For there is no anonymous giver, except perhaps the guy who knocks up your daughter. There’s nobody picking on me. Except the ones who don’t piss in the sink. But we all do! That’s the one common denominator to seize upon. Every man has at one time pissed in the sink. I have and I am part every guy in the world, we’re all included. I know that Tolstoy pissed in the sink. I know it. He was pretending to be washing his hands, but he was pissing in the sink. There is a group of interns working for a newspaper who want to reveal the farce that the court of justice had partook in. They bring the story to their jaded supervisor who responds by saying “I can’t publish this story, as you’ll see as you get older that this is all a game.” One can proclaim that such cynicism is B.S, that there are good people and bad people, the liars and the truth tellers. That the world takes one step further than the absurd, but the editor is right. There is only what is, one may be inclined to say “what about Jesus, MLKJ, and Ghandi” The image of Jesus is being used by the modern day Pharisee to further his agenda (republicans, the democrats are no better, also sexists…), racism is still alive and India is still a caste system, old regimes collapse and bring in new regimes with a new name, a fresh coat of paint but the same essence. The truth is what is and what should be is a fantasy. A terrible lie someone gave the people a long, long time ago. God is dead and the church murdered him. This world-view is the baby of the church throughout the eras.
My Response
When the church beats its wings vaingloriously as another worldly fraternity in the bloody carnival of dehumanization. With the antichrist as its archangel and the Christ as its scapegoat. Karl Marx said that religion is the opium of the masses, opium has become the opium of the masses. We are all dancing protein, puppets whose strings are being pulled by nature chasing after idols in the hilarious parody that we call life. You’ll argue that I am crazy, that we have consciousness and are therefore not puppets but real people. Yes, just as Pinocchio we can become real, through allowing God to inflame our consciousness with the Holy Spirit and his discernment. Consciousness allow us to reason and perceive and the Holy Spirit allows us to transcend natures slave-master mentality, this is in my opinion the surest proof of the existence of God. We must step up and truly show Christ instead of our own agendas, otherwise we will be nothing more than puppets playing at Gods, making a mockery of the fruit of life and glorifying the fruit of good and evil. We must first recognize our own nakedness and have the way cleanse us as a holistic whole before we can have the world see the light of the kingdom of heaven


Pride
Pride is a ghastly, crazed parrot.
A parasite that inflames the mind with the intoxicated squawking of the harlot on the brazed dragon.
Spilling out gibberish as if it was a chicken running around with its head chopped off,
Its scythe like beak leeches unto the air as if it was blood.
I try to hit it, to make is stop but it mockingly encircles me with its demonic, dilated, bulging eyes.
It looks like a plush toy that is having its life squeezed out by a pathological three-year-old.
I cannot seem to be able to swat the ugly monstrosity away.
“Honey, why are you waving your arms around like a maniac.”
I look and see my wife.
Where has the parrot gone?
I stutter as I try to explain, all I see is the horror in her eyes.
I look down to contemplate the depths of hell and all I see is my dog chasing after its tail.
Do I wake or sleep? Was it a vision or a waking dream?



The Flood
The gallows of the flood drown the wonders of life.
The drainage leaves the colorful leaves of wonderland in tears;
one cannot help but wonder what Noah and Alice have in common.
The sorrow of righteous indignation in a senseless world.
God ever looks upon our hearts, carries us through and directs our ark with the precision of Eurus, the sirens cannot seduce us, we will not be stuck in the wreckage of time.
The snake slithers waiting to bite our ankles as the once glorious king Nebuchadnezzar wails to the songs of angels.
Cherubim swim in pools of living water.
Madness drives poor Alice through the curves of darkness.
Sickness suffocates her as the Cheshire Cat watches with a grimacing grin.
Winking at her poor attempts of escaping self and finding freedom.
The dove comes looking for the poor girl, the drowned girl but cannot find a place to set her delicate foot within the abyss of heavens tears.
The ravens seek for her in lust, the vultures in hunger, poor Alice is in the brink of being devoured.
Resurrection is upon her, all is not lost.
All is under God’s watchful eyes.
The dove will not leave Alice alone, in a matter of seven days the dove flies out again finding a fleshly plucked olive leaf, all is not lost, life is still to be found.
Madness has yet to overtake our poor little girl, she cannot overcome darkness, but God can.

Despair
I am the slain waxen doll. The shadow of a nightingale trying to escape its empty vessel. All I wanted was to prove to myself that I am more than a walking manikin existing in the dollhouse of a three-year-old, and all I could accomplish was to consume the Leviathans pale fire. The marble is not glistening under the sun as the anonymous hand scribbles in the dark.
I swallowed up the bronze dragon as I watched the cherubs dance to Bach. I danced with the harlot witch to obtain pixie dust, to explore the nether regions of hell. I am the beetle at the wrong end of a crazed air head’s high heel. The eyes of my spirit roll so far back that blood is pouring from my eye sockets as I stare into the infinite gallows of the hanged man.
I want to pull the trigger on this manikin’s temple and watch its fluff fly into the vacuum. I am going crazy under the grimacing grin of the Cheshire Cat. The pale fire is my crib between the two abysses. The heart is a useless commodity, I hear that it tastes great with tea. You the reader by now probably consider me a wretched charlatan, a pathetic Gogolian creature.
My wife is hoping that I will be born again. I think it would be funny if I committed suicide after being baptized, falling into the Beelzebub set of blood baptism. I am of course joking. Her new-found faith is annoying me. She is raving about fairy tales; how much God loves me and how he wants to take my heart of stone and give me one of flesh. The crazy doesn’t stop with her trying to convert the demon child, she wrote an interesting poem concerning the Virgin Mary, it supposedly gave her spiritual fulfillment. How frivolous, capricious and full of pathos; women.
the serpent’s eyes travel through the depths of death.
Life is nonexistent within this night,
I think and wonder on the edge of the knife, who am I, what great deeds have I done for the light to have visited me.
The angel spoke of birth as I tended my father’s gardens.
Was it truly an angel or just my imagination?
Do I hunger to be loved, for who am I for God to have chosen me?
I am nothing more than a loyal servant in my father’s home, the voice I heard today was the same as the royal light that possessed Balaam’s loyal stead on that faithless day.
Am I not to have faith as Sarah did when she mocked Gods promise, no I can’t, I will not… What will Joseph think when I tell him that I will give birth without being with a man,
yet a warm radiance warms my heart as I look upon tomorrow…
I hope and plead that Joseph doesn’t think that I have been unfaithful.
That this is all a lie, if he does lord please send me to Sheol tonight.
Allow me to look into the eyes of the bronze snake for I am withering not like the fake prophet but like the crops in the month of death.
What would Ruth have said if she stood amidst the crops of my heart tonight?
What a knavish notion, what a commotion the heart creates when afraid of the laughter of Azazel.
Lord please help Joseph understand – help him understand that I am loyal…
I am your loyal servant and stand amongst those is Sheol tonight under this moonlight trance, lord you are my all – thy will be done.
The piece reminds me of the gethsemane scene. Do you think that the reason Jesus was sweating blood may be because of the massacre of the innocents in Bethlehem - all the babies’ that were martyred so he can fulfill his divine function? Paradise is nothing more than the cobwebs of a spider. Life truly is a funny joke – as the holy mafioso says, “do not give what is holy to dogs, and do not throw pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.”


The name is Vlad Lyosukov. I’m a successful 32-year-old business man. My specialty is in construction. I will try to keep this introduction short to be able to get you into the interesting parts. What you need to know is that I am an animal that is going to someday swim in a money vault like the duck from Ducktails. I did it without having to go to college. If you have the know-how and the drive to make money education is nothing more than a formal past time for shaved orangutans. I drive in a brand new, sexy, black Porsche 911 turbo. I enjoy the color black, the darkness is a great reflection of life, my house is a product of dark colors, red, black and linoleum. The art behind my decisions for the house would make a business woman in Barcelona froth. It truly is interior porn, but that’s enough of that, if you don’t get it you’ll never understand it. Interior design is not for the vulgar minded.
The wife’s name is Leanna. We got married over a decade ago because I impregnated her, that is a big deal in my culture. I was seventeen at the time and she was fifteen, we had to get married at Vegas. We were simple minded foreigners with highly conservative parents - we didn’t know better. The only people who attended were our parents, my younger brother, a cop that pulled us over, and a crack headed homeless man that we found at a local donut shop, it was truly a holy event, all I had in this world of sin was her. If my wife was a midcentury antique it would be interesting to discuss her, but she isn’t. What a scoundrel I am - Haha of course I’m joking, either way she is the love of my life, a divine goddess of the 21st century. That’s all I have concerning that boorish topic. Money is the forbidden fruit, the light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. It is the entitlement of Zeus, Muhammad and the Buddha vomited out by the sacred mythical beast known as life.

The second-rate Russian author of thriller books enjoyed putting in tavern scenes in his books rather it be the torments of Raskolnivkov or the religious conversation of the Karamazovs’. How I hate that puffed up prophet. That mad man full of melancholy and sentiment. Dostoevsky loved to put in fluid conversations that are far from anything that happens within the fabric of reality. I would love to be able to watch him rot in hell as I have my emoji tongue sticking out. This segment isn’t going to concern the prophet. It is going to be a conversation that I had with my younger brother. As it wasn’t as fluid as a dostoevskian dream - I will write it down as if it were text messages, a conversation on the web. My brother’s name is Ivan, he is 22 years old, a cold, shark eyed graduate in computers and has also recently gone off the rails as he too is now a Jesus freak. The scene begins with the two of us sitting from one another and is a product of art as I remove all the awkward bits of silence and stammering.
Dear reader you must agree with me that I must not mention the niceties and mannerisms that are expected amongst philistines, small talk is for the weak minded. Give me liberty or give me death, or something along those lines should be how all conversations should begin. Instead of the boorish, “hi, how are you”, “isn’t it a great day”, “the lord has blessed us”, what shriveled up tongues, almost as shriveled as their – I won’t deliver such a vulgar line but you dear reader get the point. It is lucifer’s bastion, the haven for those lacking in genius, I’m repeating myself and should go ahead and get on with my original point. What was that – yes, my conversation with my younger brother who has decided to take the greatest B.S story seriously. It’s almost as ridiculous as the belief in witches, people are afraid of them without even first checking if it is scientifically valid. Before pastors try to cast out the witch’s demons, they should try out the witchcraft for themselves to see if it is real. Pastors who may be reading this I plead that you show the crazed woman pity, please cut yourself and sign a deal with the devil, you’ll only find out that he is nothing more than a water boy, a figure of your imagination. To tell you the truth (just in case a pastor is reading this) I do believe in witches, truth is nothing more than the way we use words, how we decide to categorize things. There is a group of females who seduce pastors, or guys who seduce them, if the pastor is a homosexual, revealing the pastor for who they really are. What grave magic, we need to burn the witches and create the second trimester of the inquisition. It is ridiculous that there are people out there who believe that there are elite apostates who fly around in brooms, have ugly warts on their face and turn into black cats. I wonder if I’ll be able to find an architect who can build me a house with walking chicken feet. I’ll be able to invite the devil to a ball and we will all wear Jewish masks, worshipping Baal until it infuriates the lord to the point that he has us packing to Babylon. I make myself laugh… for those with a master’s in theology (or preferably a PHD) can you please tell me how the devil and God come together to create a dog – poshlust. I need to collect my whims together, here is the conversation:
Me: “Ivan, so you’re a Christian now, why have you decided to believe in the Christ?”
Ivan: “Vlad I have decided to believe in the cross because it is life itself”
Me: “Ivan, what are you talking about, what do you mean by life, you are aware of my opinion… that I believe it is the fantasies of mad men.”
Ivan: “Vlad have you ever imagined what it would feel like to wear the crown of thorns?”
Me: “Vlad, I believe that you have a deeper crux to your question, what is it?”
Ivan: “Nothing more than that it is the foundation of my belief”
Me: “Vlad, you sound like you’re going mad” - I winked at him after saying this, the poor sod took me seriously
Ivan: “Madness has lead me to doubt. People say that Christians are cowards who chase after peace and hope from the old-fashioned dopamine dealer, yet the beauty of the cross has lead me to bow down at the feet of his throne.”
Me: “Ivan please go on, please explain to me how exactly it is that you get to the feet of his throne”
Ivan: “Vlad, God is a mathematical point and if we were to look at it through a fuller, richer dimension we will notice that it is a spiral, I need to continue walking up those steps if I don’t I will be lost in the suffocating fog.”
Me: “You sound like an existentialist, please drop this, you are making an idiot out of yourself, and I won’t allow that in my younger brother,” you do have to respect his use of imagery and language though, the kid is smart “existentialism can only be spoken off in irony, Vlad it is poshlust. A bunch of old French guys meeting up in cafés having nothing better to do with their time, Vlad the truth is that you are doing this for that girl.” He smirks at me.
Ivan: “She is paradise, I must continue to walk up the stairway of heaven”
Me: “Now you’re going to give up your life, I bet you’re not having sex with her, that’s the only stairways of heaven that matter in this lifetime. This supposed stairway is nothing more than an optical illusion created by a phantom of the imagination. God is too old fashioned for anyone to take seriously and the devil is hanging out at the courts of death. Your little girlfriend is too stupid to even realize this, she seems like paradise, perfection, Ivan you’re an idiot. The truth is that she is too boring for the devil to want to have anything to do with her and too stupid to even be able to doubt her precious God. If you do have an unquenchable desire to believe in a God, imagine a circus freak juggling planets.
Ivan: “Vlad please take that back”
Me: “Ivan, I’m sorry. Ivan, you must realize that faith is nothing more than a merry go round ride, and once it stops the pixies fear that gravity will halt for a mere second and it will make mountains fall into oceans, and people are not ready for such madness, it’s all smoke and mirrors, a magic show. Don’t you recognize how ironic you’re being, the parody that you are creating for yourself? Ivan grow up, life is a game of Russian roulette and your God is the loaded revolver”
After this there was a great silence, Ivan looked at the floor and I believe that I saw some tears blurring those beautiful blue eyes, it was as if the heavens themselves were crying. I decided to give him a moment, I went to go grab myself a beer, did I go too far? He must be a man, and if he can’t deal with this, how is he supposed to be able to follow his mad man while carrying his cross. It is a wonder to see those once cold eyes clouded with tears.
Me: “Ivan would you like to continue with this conversation.”
Ivan: “Vlad, idealism may be grotesque. Sentiments may be fantastic fairy tales, the product of evolution. God may be the thin veneer between vision and fate, as you would say a ploy to control the masses, yet I continuously feel like I’m being haunted by a ghost of genius that’s telling me that it’s okay to shed a tear, do you understand what I’m saying?” This reminded me of the dream that he used to have as a child.
Me: “Ivan do you remember the constant dream you had when you were young, the dream of the Seraphims’ and Cherubs dancing to the music of Bach with a Latin choir in the background… if I remember correctly you described yourself as whiter than snow in the dream. You also mentioned sitting next to a shark eyed, razor toothed mermaid that was ready to devour you at any moment as if you were cherry pirozhki”
Even if Ivan may try to hide it, he is a sentimentalist, a predisposed figure for the cross. I’m just happy that he hasn’t gone with the Dostoevskian approach of asking me if I don’t worship a God that must mean that I myself have made myself into a God. As if I was Nebuchadnezzar himself and he was simply waiting for his God to make me go on all fours and prance around like a goat seeking out hay. It would at least put us on equal footing him (the idiotic Christian) being sheepish and all. Ivan is a big fan of the writer and seems to have gained a different understanding…
Ivan: “Vlad I can’t help but sense as if you are mocking me. Yes, I do have visions and do have beautiful images that put my spirit to bliss. That is not the foundation, my foundation is freedom, Vlad God changed me, he loves you.”
Me: “Ivan that is beautiful, I must go, my wife is expecting me”
Ivan: “Vlad may I pray for you”
I allowed him to pray for me, I don’t think there is any point in it, but if it puts his soul to rest than why not? I simply find it sad that he has gone into the way – Ivan is a riddle that sees angels in coincidences, it’s as if he is trying to use pure chance to tie a knot around his neck and then call it faith. Why is it that intelligent men are capable of such ridiculous notions?



I find it interesting that he calls her paradise, as if Adam would’ve called Eve Eden after the fall. As if a pseudo Cupid would’ve shot Steve for looking at Adam and bring in the anguish of the Cherubim of the ark as Eve looks back only to become a pillar of salt. What is love, if nothing more than a chemical reaction. It is madness, with a sacred ritual performed in the midst of candles and icons. I am against homosexuality as it goes against the law of reproduction. My wife Leanna truly is a goddess as I stated earlier, a beautiful pinup with intelligence. If the World Mission Society Church of God believes and worships a Mother God, it is Leanna that they are worshipping. I don’t understand why she worships God, and cares so much for what Nietzsche called “slaves”. She says it has something to do with the Tolstoyan movement of old, calling it Christian Anarchism. I don’t understand why she is listening to that dead quack, the opinions of the dead should stay with the dead rather it be Tolstoy, the Christ, Norma Jeane, or Apostol Paul. Allow those great figures to rest in peace instead of bringing up their names, they were mortal and yet we make them immortal, while forgetting about the billions of simpletons who couldn’t make a name for themselves. Yet they say that love is eternal, I love my child, I really do. Her name is Irina and she is a brilliant 15-year-old who wants to be a Doctor, she wants to save lives, even those that are nothing more than pawns, or who can’t put their share in rowing the canoe that is society. An innocent, naïve heart which may someday grow up as Apostol Paul puts it “when I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.” I’m not sure if her dreams are childish, perhaps it is important to care for the lazy talentless bums too, but as the business owner of the NT puts it to the man who hid his talent, “you wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I scattered no seed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So, take the talent from him and give it to him who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” I wonder if Tolstoy considered this passage of the Bible when he decided to create a religion in his old nihilistic tendencies of peace, poverty, and love. Yet love persists, I may not understand Leanna’s or Irina’s forbidden forests, but I will tear limb for limb anyone who harms them. One a goddess who believes in ghoulish fairy tales and the other a young humanitarian agnostic who truly wants to make the world a better place. It is love that keeps us together, as I said earlier madness. Ivan too is a mad man who has found the Rusalka (mermaid) of his childhood dreams, he calls her that because due to her godliness she has drowned perverts through the feminine tool of rejection. He even wrote a love letter to her, one that I believe truly puts the madness forward in graceful prose, I hope no one takes offense if I share it here. As long as I can remember I viewed love as a chemical defect, human error, with bumbling fools such as the romantics in the forefront ‘I could be martyred for my religion – love is my religion – I can die for that” and yet here I am trying to understand my own emotions. Quasimodo comes to mind “suddenly an angel smiles at me, I swear this must be heavens light” my spirit flutters like God’s dove in radiance. As if I sit under the tree bearing the fruits of the spirit and watch as the sun reflects the glittering colorful leaves. As the tear drops of heaven glide down, creating a fragrance that can only be described as life, joy, peace and goodness to name a few marketing slogans. I am at a loss of words as I hear the angels sing, how can I explain to you my happiness, my golden blessed happiness. I can’t even write words without imagining how you’ll pronounce it, how dare I try to tell you anything in words, how does one even began to try to describe such a divine, pure, beautiful light, such grace can only come from one of God’s Queens. This is all coming out completely wrong, with you one needs to talk wonderfully. For my own health as I fear that I will be crippled by my own madness, I will once more try to explain my soul in this whirlwind… An hour with you is like a second, a second is like eternity, here is Eden, how can I focus when the tree of life is amongst the damned rats in this house of mirrors. Gravity is nonsense, an unnecessary commodity, the tears of angels as they watch a fool fantasize about the immortality in one of Gods holy daughters. Jesus Christ please help me, this is all wrong. I simply want to tell you that somehow I can’t imagine life without you. I love you, I want you, I need you unbearably… Lord I need your help – I can’t stop myself from writing – Lord please give me wisdom. Rusalka your eyes, your voice… you came into my life – not as one comes to visit, but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads for your steps. Perhaps paradise is not the cobwebs of a spider but is in fact love.



I’m at a loss of words. How does one speak in such a moment, what happens after death? Do we honestly become nothing more than voiceless, reeking animals without context? Perhaps death is an ever-evolving mythical beast, I’ve become sentimental after I heard the news. My wife has only six more months to live. Leanna has brain cancer, my dear wife, the doctor said it is untreatable. Dear reader of mine, do not even dare to laugh at the irony. Irina is with Leanna at the moment in tears, how could this have happened. Whose sick joke is this, who dares. You may be saying that it is another function of life, that mortality is to be expected, and that our bodies are full of flaws, errors, malfunctions. That death is the only thing that we can count for from all human beings. As the Hellenistic syllogism goes, if my neighbor is mortal than we can logically deduce that I too am mortal. Who needs that, why this rubbish, if there is a Lord why didn’t he protect her from cancer. I am at a loss of words, I too can’t help her. People pray and pray for blessings but do they ever truly come, I am more successful than those whose parents pray for them. What is success, this is ridiculous, I am once again making this about myself. How can I comfort them? I will be there with her till the end of time. In this world of sin all I ever truly needed was her, and now she is soon going to be gone. I at least still have Irina, but how will she cope without a mother. Leanna smiles at us and says everything is going to be okay, that she will soon be with the Lord and will look over us as an angel does. That she will always keep us in her prayers, she is the strongest one of us, she is my cornerstone. She goes on praying, why does she do that, why won’t she raise her voice against her God for doing this to her, for allowing it to happen. She continues being an enigma. Christian parents protect their children from the wolf that wears sheep clothing but perhaps your God is a wolf wearing sheep clothing. Leanna smiles at me with meek eyes, she says that God loves me and that she knows that someday I will turn to him for help and comfort. Why would I do something so unjust. Irina has been praying after hearing the news, reading the good news, and is now going to church with Leanna, I too go with them. The pastor goes on about how the Lord loves us, always taking money and is supposedly using it for orphans in third world countries. If he is taking any of it for himself than I hope someone that knows will tie a boulder around his neck and throw him into the ocean. I am doing this for her, her voice is the eternal ringing of my ears, the aesthetic bliss of my dark world. She seems to have escaped this world, she radiates like an angel even though chemo has her looking like a tailless monkey. Irina says she wants to find the cure for cancer, Leanna looks at her and says trust the Lord, he is the eternal cure to all of our problems here on earth. I still don’t believe in this sentimental rubbish, I look at her and smile, I may not believe in God but I do believe in her. We are together more as a family, I haven’t been involved with work lately, how can I be, work is not life, family is life. A warmth crawls down my spine while I’m in Leanna’s presence - blissful joy. I am not the nebula of the mall, the center of the universe. I have always known this fact but now I am truly experiencing it. What beautiful flower crowns they wore earlier today; made from dandelions. It had me remember when I was a child airing out their older ancestors and my awe as I watched them fly up into the blue and yellow sky as I made a wish, oh blissful Ukraine, blessed world, Eden where have you gone. I will do everything I can do from this moment on to make sure Irina’s life is paradise, Leanna chuckles at my ideas. She says since man ate from the tree of good and evil we can’t ever truly forever live in peace, and joy while here on this earth, but that she thinks my intention is pure and that I will do a good job in continuing to raise Irina. I have been a terrible father and husband yet she still loved me and never gave up on me. She seems to have eternal joy within her, a radiant light hotter than the sun. She died later that night, I won’t go on about the funeral with their rituals and traditions, I never cared for other people. Ivan told me to call him whenever I needed help or company. I and Irina walked up to the casket together, she looked up and saw me in tears, she told me Papa she’ll forever be with us, in our dreams, in our waking hours, and we will soon be with her. I smiled at her but didn’t say a word, she is right, Leanna will now be a ghost of inspiration.


Irina has been coping well, she is doing great at school, has several friends, and is leading a Bible study at the church. I am proud of her, and I swear if any boy looks at her the wrong way I will rip his intestines out and hang him like a ripped open piñata for all the other perverts to have a good look at, the spectacle, one good horse laugh is better than a hundred arguments. I am walking to the cemetery, it is 2 A.M. The cemetery is an hour walk from my place. Numbness pains my heart, madness has engulfed me, a drowsy numbness pains my senses. It seems as if I have emptied a dull opiate down my drains. The heavy-winged seraphim’s sing hosanna in full throated-ease, my vision is blurring. My lips are trembling, tears trickle down my cheek, I am burning in fever, I trudge on. For a draft of life! The mall’s sink down into the long abyss in the deep-delved earth. My life has been a sham, what use are my acquisition’s? My thoughts are leaving reality I am becoming crazed. The scenery tastes of floral and of country green, the pixies dance to classical and sunburnt playfulness. Don’t the Christians seem to be full of joy as they sing third rate lyrics behind the chords of the organ played by a wrinkly dinosaur, why couldn’t God take her away instead of my Leanna. O for a beaker of opium, full of truth I imagine standing in the courts of Lucifer, oh he is easy to believe in, the blushful nymph winks as I drink from the Hippocrene with bubbles winking at the brim. I hope I may never escape my fantasy, and leave the world unseen, and fade away into the forest. What terrible thoughts I am having.
How can I possibly be thinking such evil thoughts at a moment like this, Lord if you are there please take my soul and damn me forever, but how will Irina cope, I look up into the sky and think of Leanna, is she smiling down at me from the heavens, what ridiculous thoughts. I am fully aware that if God is real that he exists outside of space and time, oh only if I could live in timelessness where everything remains as it is, where I can still embrace Leanna. To fade far away from this world, evaporate and forget what the leaves have never known, the anxiety of fever, and impatience, where men sit and hear each other groan. But I mustn’t commit suicide, above all else I must continue to trudge on. This world is a joke, space and time are a joke, simply thinking here means to be full of sorrow, beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes here. Away! Away! Death I will fly to you, not charioted on God’s chariot, the one that took Elijah, but on the viewless wings of the night. There is no light, save perhaps what is given to me from heaven with the breezes blown. I can’t see what flowers are at my feet, I don’t know what soft incense hangs upon the trees, in embalmed darkness, I guess that each is sweet. The earth gives birth to the grass, bushes, and the fruit trees, white hawthorn, cherry blossoms and the pastoral rose, but it also takes away life, that is the genius of fate. I listen to the haunt of flies, I am falling half in love with easeful death, I call her soft names in amusing rhyme to take into the air my quiet breath. You were not born for death, immortal eagle! The voice that I hear was heard in ancient Jerusalem by prophet and clown, perhaps the self-same song found a path through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home she stood amidst the foreign corn. I come to the marble gravestone that has Leanna’s casket under it. I began remembering all of our memories, the happy ones, the time we got married, the time we had Irina and then the terrible ones come flooding in as if cursed, demonic parrots, I can’t believe how I treated her when she was still alive, I begin trembling without control. I fall on my knees and try to pray for forgiveness but the words won’t come out. I can’t control the shaking, I can’t control my tongue, what a blazed fire our own egos are. I lay down on her, hoping, pleading to her that I will be a better man, the man she always knew I can be. I kiss the gravestone and read her epitaph “loving wife and mother, John 3:16.” Lord forgive me, I can’t do this on my own, rather you are there or not, I want to believe in you, I beg you lord help me, impart your wisdom unto me, please I beg you. She was paradise, she was love, she was joy, she was goodness, she was life. Lord it is because of your love that you went on that cross, the infants of the massacre judge men with you, as angels they watch us in tears as we continuously go against you. They must at times believe that their sacrifice was a waste on us, how could they not, lord help me to live up to the cross, to Leanna, and to all the martyrs of truth. I look up to the east and see the star of David to the west I see the shadow of a cross on top of a grave stone.



Artists of the Human Spirit
The philosopher is through and through a romantic – anonymous
Philosophical inquiry is looking for the vanishing black cat in the back alleyway under the night sky while the heavens wink at you. It is caressing the spirits under the moonlight trance as the scientist bathes under the waterfall seeking out rays of light from the light above. The pondering of the past, present and future as the magician stumbles into the trance of timelessness. It is reaching out to the paradise of Eden as you hold the galaxies upon your palm like a teardrop from heaven. It is the creativity in the creation of the tower of Babel and in the destruction of Athens. It is biting from the tree of good and evil in search of knowledge from the spirits. This is a tale of a philosopher and a scientist, both young males in their early twenties.
The philosopher is a stocky built man, has gray eyes, dimples, and is often compared to Phillip Gallagher. He has a hunger for spiritual wonder, is a connoisseur of sorts, seeking art for the sake of art, and wisdom for the sake of wisdom. The scientist is an anorexic man, carries a face that resembles that of a chipmunk’s, with high cheekbones, a broad chin, and blue eyes, a man of rare beauty, a man that gives a young Brad Pitt a run for his money. A sullen man of darkness, loneliness and the look of death shadowing his eyes. People that have looked into his eyes for long walk away unable to tell time and differentiate the sensuous capsule that is life from the loneliness of nothingness. The cradle between the two abysses becomes groundless. A loaded pistol grows in the cradle as they can’t escape the unsettling effect that was left from meeting our scientist. It is as if they saw Lazarus come back from the dead and shared in the coldness of the silence that comes from coming out of the sacred, gothic temple that is death. I walk through the roads and ponder on the mystical event that is the lives of these two young men. I walk through a parking lot and see the asphalt’s colorful parakeet on the ground where oil and water shared a relationship and synthesized into pride. This is a tale of madness, love, betrayal and freedom. I pray that God helps me to tell this story accurately, to help me retell their story with precision in all its haunting mystery and gothic mysticism. This is my recollection…
It is strange how a memory will grow into a wax figure, how the cherub grows suspiciously prettier as its frame darkens with age-strange, strange are the mishaps of memory – Vladimir Nabokov
The philosopher was a philosopher before he even knew what philosophy was. An introspective young boy, with a cheerful domineer for adventure, and a loud laugh that can be heard throughout the neighborhood. From a young age he was called ‘philosopher’ as he had a ponderous mind, one that couldn’t help but ponder on the mysteries of the Bible, the complexities of God’s personality, the paradox of mercy and justice coming into one, supreme being, and the subtle cleverness of the prince of lies and his wolf pack of clever deceivers. He pondered and pondered on the inconsistencies of omnipresence, omniscience, how can one know all from alpha to omega, yet have wrath when people disobey, the beauty of freedom in allowing choice through the planting of the delicious fruit from the tree of good and life, and hungering for the tree of life, the philosophical stone which crux was in the cross. He felt that it all came together through the concept of the spirit, but what is the spirit, what is consciousness and what sends us to ponder on the mysteries of life. He was a clever child, one of exuberance and yet the seriousness of a logician. He believed that the spirit is seen in death and it is the transfiguration of the flesh into a new being, the madness that brought chaos into the cosmos, the stream of consciousness into fluid thought, he as a child couldn’t express it in those words but he felt it intuitively, the spirit was the dancing of particles that form the bane of thought, the filtering of the angels versus the demons, the running thoughts that come from the neurons interacting with one another, and synapses directing the senses into action. Dancing particles creating a white aurora like breath in the cold of night. He expressed this to the scientist one sunny day, at the park next to the scientist’s house. The philosopher sat on the gravel while the scientist was doing pull ups on the monkey bars, next to the flower beds of yellow tulips, orange, red and yellow roses and green bushes whose leaves glistened to the reflection of the sun. The two met in class earlier that year and came together as friends in their curiosity for knowledge, their love of reading, and other shared interests. From what I remember they were in the sixth grade and had just entered junior high school. This was the first time they met outside of the school. The philosopher for the last several months spent time trying to get the scientist to accept the power of imagination instead of just cold facts, and it was working, the explaining of his idea concerning the spirit especially inspired the scientist. The scientist asked the philosopher, “how does one go about seeing the spirit, how does one conduct a science experiment to prove the existence of the spirit?” The philosopher responded by saying “to see the spirit I believe that we must have a lower being overcome and kill a higher being, such as a mouse kill a cat, and at the point of death we will be able to see the spirit.” The scientist asked, “how will we go about doing this?” The philosopher told him that we must inject steroids into the mouse, put them in a gated area and watch a death match between the two, this is of course animal cruelty. They used kitchen and cleaning appliances to create homemade steroids, they were truly chemists, and intellectuals that put their action into plan. The mouse killed the cat, and then died shortly afterwards but there was no seeing the spirit. The scientist fell into disappointment and asked the philosopher why he didn’t see it. The philosopher speculated that perhaps it can only be done if we do the experiment on humans. Perhaps through the concept of beauty, jokingly said “If you want to see the spirit you need to find an ugly man, make a monster out of him like Frankenstein’s monster, and do the experiment with beautiful women, women that are a ten, have the monster have sex with the women and kill them, while this is happening you the scientist should make fun of them while holding a camera up, but don’t do this because if you do in the process you’ll fall into madness, and only in that state of mind will you see their spirits.” The scientist in a serious expression asked, “what will happen then?” The philosopher expressed that “you will fall into madness and will want to commit suicide for what you’ve done.” The scientist was in love with the philosopher and made it his goal to prove the philosopher’s theory and asked, “how do I go about luring the girls?” The philosopher told him without realizing his intent, “lure them in with the promise of sex, and promise them that they will see the philosopher who will share the secrets of heaven with them, make them sign a long agreement that they will not want to read to keep yourself from getting in trouble,” and added “it should take place in a haunted house.” The scientist becoming more curious of this strange talk ponders and asks, “how would the suicide be committed?” The philosopher in jest says “it will be in way that symbolizes his life transcending him into the stratosphere of the infinite and making him into a God, like in the crucifixion of the mad man that preached the truth, undermined Rome and rebelled against the Jewish institution. I believe that if you were to do this then you will make money by creating a new porn industry through the production of snuff videos, create a spirit by knowing its properties, so the money, the spirit and the scientific research should be present at the death scene to symbolize the life that went against the institution of this world. The means to go about it would be an overdosage of heroine to symbolize the madness, the room should be decorated with mountains of it, and you should have both middle fingers out and your tongue sticking out in rebellion against the Earth and it institutions, this will transfigure you into a God and you can say as Skovoroda did ‘the world tried to catch me and could not.’” “I don’t understand” the scientist responded, “will I be going against the church and how is this going against the world.” The Philosopher shared with him that this is the secret of Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, “you will transcend the church by rebelling against God through rebelling even though you came with the mathematical proof that proves his existence, you will become all too human,” the philosopher winks at the scientist. The philosopher’s mom came to pick him up and the scientist went home with the birth of a new obsession.
He did it, the scientist at the age of seventeen went through with it and it went as the philosopher had foreshadowed it, the outcome came as the philosopher said it would. He felt religious ecstasy every time he saw a spirt, and felt like God himself when he created the spirit. The scientist survived the suicidal attempt and arose from cardiac arrest on the third day and was escorted to a looney bin in Chicago. The bully that was the scientist’s puppet and made into a monster was found dead. The philosopher grew up to becoming a heretic in his late teens, the spirt that the scientist created visited him in his dreams and told him that he’ll crucify him in top of his parents’ church, nailed by his middle fingers making him into a God. the philosopher woke screaming, kicking, repenting and begging God to set him free from his self-created damned chains, little did he know about the scientist’s survival due to their estrangement at the time. The intellectuals labeled the atrocious event under the psychological illness of schizophrenia, the Christians as lost souls in need of God and some even speculated that the girls went through with it for the fun of it, it’s all too human. Dear reader what conclusions may we draw about the spirit? You may be asking about yourself what is currently taking place with these young men, to make a long story short they found freedom from their bondages in the grace of Christ and becoming slaves to righteousness, it’s all too human, their spirits are all too human.
 

OptoGypsy

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Thats exactly what I was trying to describe the goldfish as, a simpleton without direction looking out into the world through a glassed bowl. What do you think of the idea of me being a T?

My role models are:
1. Ben Shapiro
2. Milo Yiannoupolos
3. Voltaire
4. Pushkin
5. Dostoevsky
6. Ivan Bunin
7. Nabokov
8. C.S Lewis
9. Ravi Zacharias
10. Nikolai Tesla
11. Alan Turing
12. Leonardo Davinci

Stream of consicousness is not my idea but a writing method of the modernists, original to James Joyce, I describe consciousness by the soul/spirit which is driven by madness/insanity in my personal opinion.
 

OptoGypsy

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One of my intj friends sees me as esfj or esfp another close intj friend doesn't see me as an infp
 

OptoGypsy

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I don't have much of the si function, I suck at recalling facts and experiences
 
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I don't have much of the si function,
I suck at recalling facts and experiences
Are You sure?

You studied Philosophy right?This sounds like a Non Sequitur argument.
When you are bad at recalling facts and experiences, it doesn't follow that you have no Si. It could signify something else.
To check whether we have Si, we should learn what jungian psychological functions termed termed introverted sensing is ? and check whether you have some psychological experience of that even may be just a little.
This is my posting about Si (introverted sensing). You can begin to read directly from introverted sensory perception....
https://www.typologycentral.com/forums/myers-briggs-and-jungian-cognitive-functions/100913-nature-jungian-functions-2.html#post3147962

Another example of Si. Have you overheard that somebody tell something like this to somebody else? or may be it has been told to you." His eyes resembles his mother/father". When they say so, they must have seen his mother's/father eyes and compares it with his eyes, so that they can tell resemblance. It is consciousness resulted because of sensory perceptions of two facts that are observed by sightsenses has stored another sightsensed based facts observed, one in the past and one in the present. The subject tries to compares it and come up sensation that they are resembles to one another.

Another example of Si. I overheard that My mother say to my sister that when she sits, she sits like a rice sack, since she usually sit for too long and unwilling to move from the floor she sit on. She sensates it like a rice sack that is put and hard to be moved from its place for a long time.
it is advisable to you To check whether you have Si, you can check in your own writing raising the question whether You have written a sentence that a sensatible fact is sensatively resembles other sensatible facts, or let other identify the Si in your writing. I did this previously. Remember that Si in my mother given could be different with your Si. Si in my example is Si paired with Extroverted Feeling, while you seem to be different with hers. So you should expect, you'll get different Si consciousness.
Another Si example is that. I overheard that my mother says to mysister that her body odor smells like a goat's odor. Another example of Si, this time using the smelling senses.


P.S. I'll come back to your thread, and read some of your writing and comment.
There are five senses, so the example can be more than just sightsense, and smelling senses.
 
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