what are people living for?

what are people living for? what gives to my life its meaning? I want to believe that i matter for something? not really all that much. the powers that be want us to be content with our own little existences. why do we not have meaning in life? because we would rather be slaves to our own little bitty passions and desires, because we, by nature love that dopamine rush that comes from getting everything that we want. That is what matters, not morals, at least that is what matters to us. if we start questioning the narrative, if we should learn how to care, to truly have any real concern for people other than our own desires, then we would see how we are being manipulated and we would fight back against it, and the higher ups do not want that

WHEN MOTHER READS ALOUD

 WHEN MOTHER READS ALOUD

When mother reads aloud, the past

Seems real as every day; I hear the tramp of armies vast, I see the spears and lances cast,

I join the thrilling fray; Brave knights and ladies fair and proud I meet, when mother reads aloud.

When mother reads aloud, far lands

Seem very near and true; I cross the desert's gleaming sands, Or hunt the jungle's prowling bands,

Or sail the ocean blue; Far heights, whose peaks the cold mists shroud, I scale, when mother reads aloud.

When mother reads aloud, I long

For noble deeds to do — To help the right, redress the wrong; It seems so easy to be strong,

So simple to be true. Oh, thick and fast the visions crowd My eyes, when mother reads aloud!

Author Unknown

Night-Piece by Solomon ibn Gabirol

 

Night-Piece

Solomon ibn Gabirol

translated from the Hebrew by Emma Lazarus Night, and the heavens beam serene with peace,  Like a pure heart benignly smiles the moon. Oh, guard thy blessed beauty from mischance,  This I beseech thee in all tender love.  See where the Storm his cloudy mantle spreads,  An ashy curtain covereth the moon.  As if the tempest thirsted for the rain,  The clouds he presses, till they burst in streams.  Heaven wears a dusky raiment, and the moon Appeareth dead—her tomb is yonder cloud,  And weeping shades come after, like the people  Who mourn with tearful grief a noble queen.  But look! the thunder pierced night’s close-linked mail, His keen-tipped lance of lightning brandishing; He hovers like a seraph-conqueror.— Dazed by the flaming splendor of his wings,  In rapid flight as in a whirling dance,  The black cloud-ravens hurry scared away.  So, though the powers of darkness chain my soul,  My heart, a hero, chafes and breaks its bonds.