Justin Rawlinson

Tag: Philosophy

  • An Early Grave

    Authors Note: This is a break from my normal style. I had a song stuck in my head, and started writing it to that beat. I’m not much of a song writer, nor have I ever tried to be, but this one wanted to come out. Hope you enjoy it.

    It’s a false divide, the hate that we feel,

    It’s all in our mind, they paid for the right

    To reap what you think, and control what you love,

    But those thoughts aren’t yours,

    They create this in us, the hate that we feel

    Got us toeing that line, keeping us stuck

    Keep on spitting our hate, while we’re working our way

    To an early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies that they give.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    We’re hoping for a return, of a decent time,

    Or we yearn for a life, full of stubborn ass pride,

    But that life’s a myth, it’s one of their ploys

    We know we can’t get there, not while we sit by

    Being owned by the men in their suits,

    They’re running their shows and spitting out hate,

    Pushing us on our way

    To that early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies that they give.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    We can keep on living, buried in the past,

    Head in the sand, a foot out the door,

    Trying to make our way, to that made-up place

    Something beyond, but it’s all right here

    If only we’d choose, to unburden it now

    Instead we line up, giving them more

    Their hate is a burden, put down on our souls,

    We’re all just so calloused and sore

    If we give it up now, I think we’d just create more.

    Plotting our way,

    To an early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies they gave.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    Living in the past, or moving on past

    Trying to find a key that will open us up

    To unlock our heart and let loose our pride

    But our pride’s the root, of all of our woes

    It keeps us in step, raising our fists

    And fighting ourselves, instead of facing our faults

    We’re keeping the best parts of ourselves

    Locked in our vaults, all hidden away

    Until it’s time to go home.

    To an Early Grave.

    Marching in time to the lies they gave.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    And maybe there’s a point, where we stand up and say,

    Enough is enough, we’ve given all you’ll take,

    Or maybe we’ll continue, just like years before

    Until someone else has the nerve to push against

    An Early Grave.

  • We’re programmed for stories.

    Grind the universe down to the finest powder. Sift it through the finest sieve. You’ll find not one atom of truth, not one molecule of justice. (Terry Pratchett, Hogfather)

    Most of what we believe is wrong. There is no moral justice written into the fabric of the universe. No cosmic ledger. No system by which we are judged. We’re here—no one really knows how—and we may never know whether it was on purpose or a cosmic accident until it’s too late to tell anyone else.

    What we know about right and wrong are stories. And there’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve always told stories—around fires, across generations—not because they were true in some scientific sense, but because we needed them. To shape behavior. To build a species. To say, “Don’t hit your neighbor and steal their food,” even if we couldn’t explain why.

    The universe doesn’t care if we do it. But we do.

    And that matters.

    Because we have the power of creation—not just of tools and machines, but of ideas. We’ve called into existence concepts so powerful, so embedded, that wars have been fought over nothing more than symbols inked on a page.

    We invent meaning.

    We evolve morality.

    And when we choose, we can rewrite it—sometimes in moments, sometimes over centuries.

    It’s natural to wonder, at the end of a life, whether we mattered. Whether we were anything more than a blip in an indifferent cosmos.

    And the truth is: we are.

    Not because of faith.

    Not because of gods.

    But because we can shape an entire planet—maybe one day a solar system, or a galaxy. Ours is a heritage with the power to ripple outward farther than any myth, farther than even the dreams of a disillusioned fantasy author.

    But to grow—truly grow—we must be more. We must expect more.

    We must examine our own failings, and stop mistaking comfort for truth.

    When someone presents an idea that challenges yours, don’t walk away.

    Don’t huddle with people who already agree.

    Sidle up to the one who disagrees—and stay there.

    That’s how we move forward.

    Everything else is stagnation.

    And we’ve stagnated long enough.