The Great Enemy

To begin with, one does not have to give a crap about Dawkins, nor any of his minions who invoke Occam's Razor at every available opportunity. However, claiming the non-existence of objective reason and morality is nothing but an excuse. Nihilism is not an end, but a question to be answered, to perish trying to solve.

The primary antagonist in J.R.R Tolikien's 'Silmarillion' is Melkor, the fallen Vala who is later named Morgoth, 'the great enemy of the world'. Melkor is evil embodied, when he curses, he does not channel the power of some superior being, it is his will that bends the fate of his enemies. Morgoth's evil arises from his desire to impose his will on all life.

Does labelling everything that constitutes such hegemonic intention lead to even a blurry distinction between good and bad ? Free will, if it exists, is all that you have, and once it is denied, you're as good as if not worse than, dead. Obviously, universal free will is impossible to achieve in this starved planet of six billion, but what have we got to loose ? If you want to believe in god, feel free, but find your own god, not someone else's.

"Sometimes in the mornings I walk all the way up here to welcome the sun who greets me. Nature is bestilled; bees and snakes are not yet stirring about. The earth and I ask each other why we are here at this very hour, for what purpose, for what grand purpose. Very few mortals think these things through in concert with nature. If human beings think at all, there are only a few pitiful ideas in their heads which they have acquired from others but think are original with them; they never discover something by contemplating nature themselves. They are feeble, wishy-washy, fragile." - The New Life, Orhan Pamuk

"For it is only as an aesthetic phenomenon that existence and the world are eternally justified."
- Friedrich Nietzsche

What is to be opposed about religion is not the all-pervading supreme being, ethereal and intangible, who is more of an instrument to implement spiritual thought, but the tyrannical hypocrite who seeks to force his twisted views on and to subvert the will of his 'believers' to satisfy his lust for power.

This is a post from an old, now deleted blog of mine.
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The last drop hung precipitously, reluctant to leave home, a moment's hesitation later, it plunged to the dusty earth - but gravity, unfortunately had rather poor reflexes. His palm moved faster then the keenest eye could discern - every drop was an ocean of warmth, a tranquilizer, a hallucinogen, it was ecstasy, it was amphetamine. Nonchalantly, he threw aside the last of the water skins. He'd long known it was hopeless.

The wasteland was an endless sea of dust and crags rising in defiance as though the very earth conspired against him, the wind lay deathly still, undisturbed but for little eddies that whispered in stark mockery at his solitude, of a fellow journeyman from ages since. His hands knew naught but the harsh razor edges of dust laden rugged rock, of fleeting ghosts of sand. Since the beginning of time they sought the lush grass he had once been promised, and his eyes the paradise that lay beyond. Now they reeled under the sun's assault that pierced deeper than the eyes, threatening to burn his very spirit to oblivion.

Withered trees stood among the desolate rocky outcrop, their roots twisted, clutching in desperation to arid waste that hadn't seen a drop of water in aeons. The desert knew neither day and night nor season. Every moment an eternity that seemed to encompass all in its omnipotence, as the next. Yet the aura of death, of inaction was but a veil, for the wasteland was alive. It was a consciousness in itself, every speck of dust a part it, even the dreary passage of time was under its domain. For it yearned to subdue all to its will.

Yet he walked. Each step revealed a new vista as horrifying as the last. Heavy were his footfalls, raising clouds of dust, echoing among the immutable wilderness.

(Another lame attempt. This time, I started reading Eliot's 'The Waste Land'. Although my feeble intellect couldn't take me too far into the poem I got all excited when I read these :

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow.
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

As is apparent from the shite I've written , not in a couple of dozen millennia could I produce something of such dreadful majesty. )

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