The Grey Philosopher (Inspired Poem)

(The Undead Metaphor's Directory: https://www.philosocom.com/post/a-new-type-of-undead-and-my-background-story

Poem Introduction

A solitary sage, adrift in the boundless ocean of thought. Isolated from the noisy world, they delve into the abyss of existence, pondering the very fabric of reality. The nature of consciousness, the temporary essence of the human condition—these are the enigmas that captivate his mind.

As days extend into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, the grey philosopher's thoughts deepen, intertwining like the roots of an ancient tree. A solitary island, adrift in the never ending sea of humanity's content matrix. Yet, in this isolation, he finds solace, a freedom unburdened by the shackles of societal expectations whose mark he refuses bearing.

His ultimate goal is to transcend the mortal coil, and ascend to a realm of pure thought. To share these profound insights, to ignite the spark of curiosity in the minds of others. A legacy, carved within the annals of human thought, and proof to the enduring power of the solitary thinker...

(Background music)

The Poem Itself

As weeks past by,

They become months,

And as months go,

They become years,

Until century after century,

Go through the one,

Known as the Grey Philosopher.

Life for him is but a distraction,

So they go to be in isolation,

For the reminder of existence,

Pondering about the only thoughts,

That keeps them,

Between life and death.

They are so deep in thought,

They will not contact anybody,

Even if contact is attempted to be made.

The more lasting they are,

The more thoughts will manifest,

To protect them in their stead,

From outside intervention.

They want to be alone, so why fear?

All you have to do is not to interfere.

They love no one,

And no one loves them.

That is not a worthy concern,

In contrast to whatever is on their mind,

And even if humankind,

Is to be eradicated by plague,

In pure isolation, this figure will reside,

Like an uncracked egg.

They look around them,

And they see how temporary it all is,

They can't help but to think,

What is it all for,

When one can spend

The entirety of their existence,

In pure contemplations,

That can last,

Even the strongest of nations.

Now, we might not be undead immortals,

But here's what we can be:

Conveyors, couriers of insights,

Carried around and round,

Like in an elementary school's game.

Round and round goes the thesis,

Of one who is long dead.

One after the other,

Naturally, die also, but not instead.

It is added, then multiplied,

Like a fountain of many stories,

That is what it's like,

To pass down the past's worries,

Forward, into the future,

Where the Idea will feature,

In hopes that, even after one dies,

Many will continue to meet her.

Until the end of time,

Until there will be none left,

And the universe will say silent of sentience,

Like a mime.

Bouncing back and forth,

Goes the philosopher's thoughts,

Up and down, left and right,

And then spread into the world,

By those who are not afraid

To be largely heard.

To be a Grey Philosopher is pure egotism,

But to be both a thinker and a distributor --

That should be preferred, far more.

Why just think for yourself,

When you can dedicate a medium on your behalf,

And spread your ideas, your insight,

Until you will lack the might,

To do so,

Until your retirement or death,

Which will be your ultimate foe?

Nonetheless, the Grey do not seem to realize,

That their thoughts are not ones to weaponize,

Against those whom you could be of use;

Otherwise, both sides lose!