philosopher

philosopher

fiction
edward w pritchard

To become a philosopher:

Following your birth it's best if your Mother dies from complications of child birth.

Your father should drown honorably at sea by your seventh birthday.

Raised by grandparents until school, you have five difficult years at boarding school. At twelve years old you realize you lifelong idee fixe.

Productive energy among your lady's skirts should produce a son. He belongs to the State.

Passion exhausted, to commerce, overseas perhaps, to the Raj. Build a fortune; otherwise inherit.

Disenchanted back to tramp and bum, sympathize with the poor.

Later live abroad, to write, drink and eat convivially on the cheap.

Home again, wander the hills of the Lake district, no more moist caves or low mountains. Rejecting Mother Gaia disavow the senses.

Contemplate, send your mind one billion trillion miles into the universe. With Chronos, time, find the edge of everything. Write your masterpiece.

Renounce philosophy, sit under a Banyan tree, think of a sick man, an old man and your corpse. Better to not be born at all, or eternal recurrence.

Time is short, sit on a dock at  a lake and watch the rain storm move toward you. Seek the way.

Catch a fish, cook a fish, wash up your only bowl.

No matter, no mind,
what's next?