Self Hate: On Pragmatic Thoughts

A substance called thought

A sensation itself, without prior existence

Like a smell sensed by an old nose

Is reminiscent but only through the sensation of thought

The smell has never been until it was

Like Heraclitus’ river

And thus the self is a river inside a thought

The old thought collecting clogging scum

Dogma that call each new experience

A thread of the past

That never existed

The clogged-scum self taints the purity of zen-perience

And lends belief to a thought that the thought itself

Is preordained necessarily loyal to an idealization of the future

And to avoid your role in this future, to delineate

Means to hate the self

That doesn’t exist

Apart from the existential thought of being



Betsy Calabaza

blooms — crazy rants masked as abstract experimental philosophy. s/o CS Peirce