The Clouded Sage

I can’t imagine being upset. You get mad. Then sad. But why sad? It seems that we’ve mutated. Our emotional constitution requires that we reconsider every interaction from the other’s point of view and calculate, with some unfortunate parameter of precision, how the other party probably felt.

The old cantankerous sort has configured this wretched device to have a minimal pulse. And the morbidly astute suffer as they see sorrow beaming from their friends’ eyes. And yet the reasonable man is unable to corner the appropriate degree of concern to be used as regular machinery.

A crass tale fills context empty atmospheres just as well as a grimace or scowl. But the recipient must decide to what extent these impulses should be filtered. And why is the recipient so responsible? Simply because she must discern the nature of the story teller or shape shifter – what was their intent. And again the blasted vision the recipient holds is to be considered time and again. All as part of a regimen precipitating the matter of choice and consequence.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if everything was instinct? But then what would friendship mean? And don’t forget the opposite is starkly evident. The smile and laugh bear some semblance of attitude and personality. Motion and commotion generate ferver within a bleeding cortex.

In sum, it is a matter of credibility! Outcome based preferences are easily redefined to be all-inclusive.