Call me Chris Krause .

AOL Instant Messenger: xScipiosDreamx
It must be so — Plato, thou reason’st well! —
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught? why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
‘Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
‘Tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity? thou pleasing, dreadful, thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass?
The wide, th’ unbounded prospect, lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there’s a power above us,
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works,) he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in, must be happy.
But when! or where! — This world was made for Caesar.
I’m weary of conjectures — This must end them.
Thus am I doubly arm’d: my death and life,
My bane and antidote are both before me:
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the wars of elements,
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature oppress’d, and harass’d out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I’ll favour her,
That my awaken’d soul may take her flight,
Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man’s rest: Cato knows neither of them,
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

Like seeing roasted meat and other dishes in front of you and suddenly realizing: This is a dead fish. A dead bird. A dead pig. Or that this noble vintage is grape juice., and the purple robes are sheep wool dyed with shellfish blood. Or making love - something rubbing against your penis, a brief seizure and a little cloudy liquid.

Perceptions like that - latching onto things and piercing through them, so we see what they really are. That's what we need to do all the time - all through our lives when things lay claim to our trust- to lay them bare and see how pointless they are, to strip away the legend that encrusts them.