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Aria

steamed up on roughness and leisure

i come to thee with an open arms

come to Aristotle

he shall cleanse your tomfoolery of idealism

what do you need for it? it is the earth

your attributions create the substance as you walk on

and he shall be right

come to Plato

he shall bind your way into your soul

for your soul is the essence of your eyes

my dear companion,

what happens to your body without the mind?

it turns to machine, said Descartes

but what happens to the mind without the body?

it becomes a mystery and horror, said Poe

you shall descend from heaven to the world

for there is no hell and we currently reside in it said Nietzsche

hence, God is dead.

humanity lives for the love of it and the goal of it though

creating and searching for purpose 

like the tale of sisyphus

finding meaning i the absurdity anyway

i bet how haughtlily smug camus would be

there are no inherent meaning in life and we go on to create our own

alone, said Sartre

my dear companion,

what happens to life without art?

do you know how it takes a single brushstroke in order to create such a flying masterpiece?

we search and search

we clamor our way to the bottom of the hill

for we do not know what is on the top

through science and love

we keep on living through those books of literature and love

we dance through songs

we analyse through analogies and symbols

but we still havent found what we are looking for

and yet we go on

to find meaning and love

for without the existence of the love of the creator,

what is meaning?

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