To Introspect, First Must be Introspection

Friedrich Neitzsche's prologue of The Genealogy of Morals is about the fact that humans do not take enough time to introspect and get to know the self.  In the text Neitzsche says, "We are always busy with our knowledge, as if we were born winged creatures—collectors of intellectual honey,"(Neitzsche 1).   This was just a very complicated way to say we are busy as bees, but with a slight twist that the philosopher says that we are too busy with our knowledge.  This becomes an even greater truth every year as information is more and more available.   

After reading The Genealogy of Morals, one truth became evident, that to introspect, first must be introspection.  Knowledge from introspection is very complicated and must be known both a priori and a posteriori.  The first step to cure a bad habit is to admit that the problem is there.  Why would this not apply to not knowing yourself?  How could you find yourself without saying that yourself is not known?  The answer is you can't, if the self society wants is yourself, then you do not know yourself.  The swarms of knowledge from our bee like lifestyles blocks the treasure from us. 

All Clovers are Family

People like to say that finding a four leaf clover is lucky, but all clovers are aesthetically pleasing.  The heart shaped leafs joined to together is a family.  A family held together by their love for each, but the fragile part of a family is also represented.  The green leaves can easily be torn off and apart.  No single leaf in the clover is any more important than another, they all have the same shape and size. The markings may be different, but so are the people of a family, and yet all together they have the same importance.

The natural green from nature is home,  and where is home?  Home is where the heart shaped leaf of a clover family is.  The color green of clovers, grass, leaves, and nature is home.  Being out in the green home we call Earth is a very calming experience, without the magical color there would be no transcendentalists.

Dear Diary,

Today as I look back on my life, during my last moments, the mistake I made has finally appear the truth to to me.  My monsters have suppressed my genius for my entire life, everything that has come to me as knowledge, gone, everything I came to know through reason, in dust, everything that I perceived and wonder why, pried for my own hands and thrown in the trash.  These monsters are like a curtain draped over me that does not light my light shine through, they told and taught me how to think, but in reality they shoved inside the box with no breathing room.  My own ideas and conviction stuck within the confines of my own mind, a voice deep inside of me, tells to let them out, but the monsters make me not let my genius gleaming light prevail. I could have done so much but my monsters guarded the prison cell I was stuck in.

My monsters started when I was just a child.  They etched knowledge into my head, and the monsters gave me all the tools to think, and to formulate ideas and conviction, but they never let the my light shine. Whenever I shone my brilliant unique gleaming streak of blinding light, I was put out quickly by the same people who gave the ability think.   My knowledge that came to me both a priori and a posteriori, was rejected by the monsters and myself.

I had great ideas to revolutionize the way are cities functioned, making everyone’s life much better.  More wildlife would be left untouched, traffic would never be a problem, the aesthetics would be pleasing.  Then the mistake I came to know though deep introspection came into play,  I blocked my own gleaming light.  The gleam that can never be shut off be, but can be blocked.  I see the bright dancing gleaming light as a flashlight that is always on with no off switch,  so you cannot turn the light off, but the monsters and myself could still put a hand over the spewing creativity.  Now that I’m almost gone I beg all others to hold your gleam flashlight close and guard your uniqueness with your life.  To quote Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Imitation is suicide.”