To Be Able To Forget

He Was Always Striving To Attain It. The Life That Was So Swiftly Expanding Within Him, Urged Him Continually Toward The Wall Of Light. The Life That Was Within Him Knew That It Was The One Way Out, The Way He Was Predestined To Tread.

The Word Is Too Weak. There Is No Word In The Language Strong Enough To Describe My Feelings.

I Am A Hopeless Materialist. I See The Soul As Nothing Else Than The Sim Of Activities Of The Organism Plus Personal Habits - Plus Inherited Habits, Memories, Experiences, Of The Organism. I Believe That When I Am Dead, I Am Dead. I Believe That With My Death I Am Just As Much Obliterated As The Last Mosquito You And I Squashed.

Had The Cub Thought In Man-fashion, He Might Have Epitomized Life As A Voracious Appetite, And The World As A Place Wherein Ranged A Multitude Of Appetites, Pursuing And Being Pursued, Hunting And Being Hunted, Eating And Being Eaten, All In Blindness And Confusion, With Violence And Disorder, A Chaos Of Gluttony And Slaughter, Ruled Over By Chance, Merciless, Planless, Endless.

Man Is A Flux Of States Of Consciousness, A Flow Of Passing Thoughts, Each Thought Of Self Another Self, A Myriad Thoughts, A Myriad Selves, A Continual Becoming But Never Being, A Will-of-the-wisp Flitting Of Ghosts In Ghostland.