Contemplation:
At what point is knowledge no longer power? At which point does it begin to hinder?
Does the metaphor of the fruit from the tree of knowledge refer to self-conscious and self-filtered knowledge as opposed to knowledge for its own sake?
Is it a specific kind of knowledge? Is it a surfeit of knowing? Is it an incomplete or skewed knowing?
If one assumes that the knowledge is pure, is absolutely correct, then are certain kinds of knowledge (going into judgement call area) detrimental to mental, spiritual or ethical development?
Or, is it the application of said knowledge which taints?
What brought this on?
On another website on which I have a profile, Ieventually decided to go with a piece of artwork for my avatar.
I wanted a change, and initially wanted something with blood. You know, a sexy silhouette, dressed in rivulets - that kind of thing.
I did what was probably not the most intelligent thing and searched "blood pictures" and "women blood pictures" on google. I do not recommend anyone ever do this.
...
Some things stain.
...
I've seen some fairly traumatic and awful things in my short time here on earth, but the existing stains on my mind really didn't need any company.
Picture after picture of crime scene and accident scene.
I learned that other people's intestines really do look amazingly like my own. The memory replayed of me holding my own guts, and a cold sweat broke out.
Then I found a page that ... man it was terrible.
It was children.
Awful, wracking crime scenes with children.
I wondered how many times these pictures had been viewed with fascination and morbid curiosity.
I wondered if anyone, of the million or so hits this website had, cried for the children or wondered if they'd caught the sick fucker who dismembered the girl in the pretty yellow sundress.
Her mouth was clean - sparkling white teeth. She took care of her teeth and someone cut off her head.
I wondered if anyone, of the million or so hits this website had, ached for the early ending of these babies and children and young teens.
Some things stain.
I had to look at each child's face. I felt compelled.
I said a prayer to whatever deity cared to hear that the ones who did this not go unpunished in some way. Some fashion. Whether it be by the law, vigilante parents, coyotes, runaway trains, natural disasters. Whatever. However.
Not necessarily justice, as justice is too ... kind sometimes.
But vengeance, and not vengeance, necessarily, by human hands - chiefly because torture, I think, dehumanizes the person who administers it.
But something, by all the odd gods of the galaxy.
Something.
I did the little I could do. I cried and ached and prayed for every one of those bairns. If they could go through it, I could look and pray. It seemed like the goddamned least thing I could do.
Some things stain.
At what point is knowledge no longer power? At which point does it begin to hinder?
Does the metaphor of the fruit from the tree of knowledge refer to self-conscious and self-filtered knowledge as opposed to knowledge for its own sake?
Is it a specific kind of knowledge? Is it a surfeit of knowing? Is it an incomplete or skewed knowing?
If one assumes that the knowledge is pure, is absolutely correct, then are certain kinds of knowledge (going into judgement call area) detrimental to mental, spiritual or ethical development?
Or, is it the application of said knowledge which taints?
What brought this on?
On another website on which I have a profile, Ieventually decided to go with a piece of artwork for my avatar.
I wanted a change, and initially wanted something with blood. You know, a sexy silhouette, dressed in rivulets - that kind of thing.
I did what was probably not the most intelligent thing and searched "blood pictures" and "women blood pictures" on google. I do not recommend anyone ever do this.
...
Some things stain.
...
I've seen some fairly traumatic and awful things in my short time here on earth, but the existing stains on my mind really didn't need any company.
Picture after picture of crime scene and accident scene.
I learned that other people's intestines really do look amazingly like my own. The memory replayed of me holding my own guts, and a cold sweat broke out.
Then I found a page that ... man it was terrible.
It was children.
Awful, wracking crime scenes with children.
I wondered how many times these pictures had been viewed with fascination and morbid curiosity.
I wondered if anyone, of the million or so hits this website had, cried for the children or wondered if they'd caught the sick fucker who dismembered the girl in the pretty yellow sundress.
Her mouth was clean - sparkling white teeth. She took care of her teeth and someone cut off her head.
I wondered if anyone, of the million or so hits this website had, ached for the early ending of these babies and children and young teens.
Some things stain.
I had to look at each child's face. I felt compelled.
I said a prayer to whatever deity cared to hear that the ones who did this not go unpunished in some way. Some fashion. Whether it be by the law, vigilante parents, coyotes, runaway trains, natural disasters. Whatever. However.
Not necessarily justice, as justice is too ... kind sometimes.
But vengeance, and not vengeance, necessarily, by human hands - chiefly because torture, I think, dehumanizes the person who administers it.
But something, by all the odd gods of the galaxy.
Something.
I did the little I could do. I cried and ached and prayed for every one of those bairns. If they could go through it, I could look and pray. It seemed like the goddamned least thing I could do.
Some things stain.