Can you use logic to reveal the Truth?
We have a history of analytical thinking over half the world.
Are we any closer to The Truth?
We have many things that could logically be called true.
Does that make them Truth?
And, would finding The Truth really help us?
Would it make us happy? Would it guide us in how to live good lives?
How could it do that?
Why should it do that?
Would it matter if we found The Truth and it didn’t help us?
What would be the point in finding The Truth if it doesn’t help us practically?
Are all acts of logics simply solving logic puzzles… no more than games?
What is The Truth anyway?
Monday, September 11, 2006
Music written just for Me
Music... Why is it we hear some music and it feels like it was written just for us? Like it speaks to us in a special way...
How can this songwriter from hundreds of miles away, that we’ve never met, capture our thoughts and feelings so perfectly?
It feels as though no-one else should feel this way, like a personal interchange between two like minds...
And slowly we remember that we have felt this way before... How is it that they can reach into our heart of hearts so often?
And the realisation dawns... Because these feelings aren’t new to us, they are felt by many people many times, and that’s how music touches us, it reminds us of what we all share, that we aren’t, as it feels, alone in our feelings...
Isn’t it nice to know we’re not unique in our unending attempts at emotional experiences.
How can this songwriter from hundreds of miles away, that we’ve never met, capture our thoughts and feelings so perfectly?
It feels as though no-one else should feel this way, like a personal interchange between two like minds...
And slowly we remember that we have felt this way before... How is it that they can reach into our heart of hearts so often?
And the realisation dawns... Because these feelings aren’t new to us, they are felt by many people many times, and that’s how music touches us, it reminds us of what we all share, that we aren’t, as it feels, alone in our feelings...
Isn’t it nice to know we’re not unique in our unending attempts at emotional experiences.
What is Philosophy; a Theory.
The point of philosophy is not to find out what happens in the world, but what it means to us, what affect the events that occur have on us. Philosophy is looking for the truth, not the truth of what is, but the truth of what “what is” means. Leave science to look for what is, we shall look at what is behind the veneer of reality.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
A Kiss of Spring
Deep in the grey of the winter city, a ray of sunshine falls.
Gently it caresses the stones of buildings long-weathered.
Light brightens the faces of the people who turn, momentarily, to see if they can catch sight of an arc of colour dancing in a shower of rain.
The clouds part and the rain clears and the warmth of a spring like moment graces the streets, kissing the stones with colours hidden by the shadows.
A smile secretly twitches at the corner of each mouth as children giggle, splashing through the puddles.
We are warmed by the sun, and the flowers grow through the cracks in the stones.
Gently it caresses the stones of buildings long-weathered.
Light brightens the faces of the people who turn, momentarily, to see if they can catch sight of an arc of colour dancing in a shower of rain.
The clouds part and the rain clears and the warmth of a spring like moment graces the streets, kissing the stones with colours hidden by the shadows.
A smile secretly twitches at the corner of each mouth as children giggle, splashing through the puddles.
We are warmed by the sun, and the flowers grow through the cracks in the stones.
What do you walk past?
Drifting down the streets in a daze of your own thoughts past the people equally insensitive to the bustle inside everyone else's head. Completely mystified and absorbed inside your brain. Brushing past the people lining the pavement, passing you one way or the other, unaware even of the fact that you are a human being.
You dodge a smiling person, bedecked in charity blazoned, brightly coloured banner. Will you recognise, shaken from your continual humdrum of thoughts, that here is a person who wishes to connect with you?
Yes, yes, I know, they are doing a job, they will connect to ask if you wish to give.
Why does this scare you? You can always say no. There is always a choice. Why do you despise them? Better that they talk you into buying something that will sit beneath your stairs for years before you chuck it away? Or that they reveal to you the wonderful works people are performing and offer you a chance to join in? Is it that you despise yourself for not choosing to take a step towards making the world a little better, for a little while?
Or do you meet their eyes, share a smile, sure in your knowledge that you are in control of your choices? Do you listen knowing it is your choice, and then decide? Or do you already do something, however large or small, that helps? Do you reach out to those that need help? Do you touch, and allow yourself to be touched, by the world outside your head? Do you listen to what happens and make a choice to change?
If you do, I salute you.
So many people walk past, afraid to listen, taught to ignore.
What do you walk past?
What do I walk past?
You dodge a smiling person, bedecked in charity blazoned, brightly coloured banner. Will you recognise, shaken from your continual humdrum of thoughts, that here is a person who wishes to connect with you?
Yes, yes, I know, they are doing a job, they will connect to ask if you wish to give.
Why does this scare you? You can always say no. There is always a choice. Why do you despise them? Better that they talk you into buying something that will sit beneath your stairs for years before you chuck it away? Or that they reveal to you the wonderful works people are performing and offer you a chance to join in? Is it that you despise yourself for not choosing to take a step towards making the world a little better, for a little while?
Or do you meet their eyes, share a smile, sure in your knowledge that you are in control of your choices? Do you listen knowing it is your choice, and then decide? Or do you already do something, however large or small, that helps? Do you reach out to those that need help? Do you touch, and allow yourself to be touched, by the world outside your head? Do you listen to what happens and make a choice to change?
If you do, I salute you.
So many people walk past, afraid to listen, taught to ignore.
What do you walk past?
What do I walk past?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Reaching for the Sun
He stretches, reaching high, on tiptoes with his arms outstretched, and plucks the sun from the sky. Feet planted back on the ground he looks at the glowing globe and wonders, “what now?”
Tossing the golden ball from hand to hand he wanders across the garden, passing a wistful frog. It is warm in his hands as he drifts into the courtroom. When he enters, to his surprise, every person standing in the room turns toward him and covers their eyes, falling to their knees.
A puzzled expression clouds his features for a moment and then his face clears and he smiles as he strides to the long-empty throne and takes his seat. He places the sun upon his head and it rests there for a moment before rising gracefully and soaring through the open door back into the sky, leaving a gorgeous golden glow around the new emperor.
Tossing the golden ball from hand to hand he wanders across the garden, passing a wistful frog. It is warm in his hands as he drifts into the courtroom. When he enters, to his surprise, every person standing in the room turns toward him and covers their eyes, falling to their knees.
A puzzled expression clouds his features for a moment and then his face clears and he smiles as he strides to the long-empty throne and takes his seat. He places the sun upon his head and it rests there for a moment before rising gracefully and soaring through the open door back into the sky, leaving a gorgeous golden glow around the new emperor.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Cracks of Sunshine
The sky hangs low, grey and heavy with rain, the sharp-edged concrete buildings dull in the dim light.
In this rundown area the streets are cracked and broken, even the scrawls of graffiti lend no colour to the place, smothered in grime as it is.
The people, few as they are, walk with heads down, scurrying to their houses dreading rain or confrontation.
And the rain begins.
The hooded lads speed off on their bikes to drier places, even they are wary of natures hand.
The rain becomes a deluge and begins to wash away the filth that encrusts the street, it filters between the cracks and life stirs.
The rain passes, the weather warms, days go by and the small seed of life cracks and reaches toward the light, from the grime it gathers strength to rise and by chance it is overlooked by heavy feet and wheels.
More rain comes, the sun shines, and over time the plant grows into a beautiful yellow flower, shining like the sun it stretches towards.
A small child, following his ball out of the rocky front garden, spots the flower and a huge smile spreads across his face as he lovingly wrenches it from its home and runs inside, proudly presenting a piece of sunshine to his mother.
Her tender kiss thanks him and her smile echoes his as she promises to put it in water. He returns to his game, his duty done, dusted and forgotten, and the dandelion, knocked behind the sofa and eventually withered, is swept into the garden becoming filth itself.
In this rundown area the streets are cracked and broken, even the scrawls of graffiti lend no colour to the place, smothered in grime as it is.
The people, few as they are, walk with heads down, scurrying to their houses dreading rain or confrontation.
And the rain begins.
The hooded lads speed off on their bikes to drier places, even they are wary of natures hand.
The rain becomes a deluge and begins to wash away the filth that encrusts the street, it filters between the cracks and life stirs.
The rain passes, the weather warms, days go by and the small seed of life cracks and reaches toward the light, from the grime it gathers strength to rise and by chance it is overlooked by heavy feet and wheels.
More rain comes, the sun shines, and over time the plant grows into a beautiful yellow flower, shining like the sun it stretches towards.
A small child, following his ball out of the rocky front garden, spots the flower and a huge smile spreads across his face as he lovingly wrenches it from its home and runs inside, proudly presenting a piece of sunshine to his mother.
Her tender kiss thanks him and her smile echoes his as she promises to put it in water. He returns to his game, his duty done, dusted and forgotten, and the dandelion, knocked behind the sofa and eventually withered, is swept into the garden becoming filth itself.
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