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On the reign of Fortuna The world is indifferent to humans and to the individual. It is evidently not committed to, and does not promise any justice, harmony, or happiness to mankind. We are logs of wood thrown into the chaotic and violent current of life, until we find our demise in the dreadful waterfall of death. Justice does not exist, except for what we make of it (and we make it crooked). Happiness is but a fleeting moment already poisoned by the clocks that announce its end and mourn its decay. And on the other side of that moment, there will always be despair and emptiness. Children die too young, having seen nothing of this life. Elders die too late, suffering agonies and indignity that muddle the already muddled waters of their long years (so evident in the wrinkles of their faces). Evil-doers get away with their vanity, and saints are crucified for their innocence. We love to say that our times are bad, because we are too afraid to admit that all times are bad. We love to say that God will make everything right, because we are too afraid to admit that God had all of eternity to make things right and he didn't. What keeps us going is the drunkening, mind-dimming belief that the next day will be better, and if it wasn't, the next one will be. Until our final day catches us by surprise. Besides our stubborn instinct to find meaning, our lives seem to be driven by cosmic luck. Your birth, your name, your beliefs, the woman you love and the company you enjoy, the job you work in, the family you belong to, your dearest moments as well as your darkest and lowest... they are like the shapes of the clouds: ephemeral, meaningless, and most importantly, eternally and universally insignificant. This world, the only one there is, is the backgammon board of Fortuna. She is the goddess of luck, good and bad. And she is blind.

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On a second thought, almost all nostalgia is a feeling of longing for an imagined past, not a real one. The perfect past is only perfect as we remember it now (not as we lived it). It's only perfect as a past moment, as something we can look at from a distance. Just as we enjoy war movies because we're watching them through a screen, and not actually living through the war. I guess nostalgia is simply: The past, beautified and reimagined. By feeling nostalgic, we create a myth of a blissful past so we can distract ourselves from the imperfect present... Which is not necessarily a bad thing to do.

What do they call the feeling of nostalgia for an "imagined" perfect past, not even a real one?

Never thought I'd quote the guy...

Money is the alienated ability of mankind. That which I am unable to do as a man, and of which therefore all my individual essential powers are incapable, I am able to do by means of money. Money thus turns each of these powers into something which in itself it is not – turns it, that is, into its contrary. — Karl Marx

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Berserk من باب الشرجي

*املوها حتى لو مو من بابل*

هلو اذا عدكم احد مسوي عملية قسطرة اتمنى يملي هاي الفورمة قصيرة، الوقت مضايقنه وشكرا🤍 https://forms.gle/m4gydXSsS1eDJEeG7

Bot:

الليلُ، والسوقُ القديم خفتَتْ بهِ الأصواتُ إلا غَمغماتِ العابرِين وخُطى الغريبِ وما تبثُّ الريحُ مِن نَغَمٍ حَزين في ذلك الليلِ البَهيم. الليلُ، والسوقُ القديم، وغَمغماتُ العابرين والنورُ تَعصرُه المصابيحُ الحزَانَى في شُحوب — مثلَ الضَبابِ على الطريق — مِن كلِّ حَانوتٍ عَتيق، بينَ الوجوهِ الشاحبات، كأنَّه نَغَم يذوب في ذلك السوقِ القديم. كَم طافَ قَبلي مِن غَريب، في ذلكَ السوقِ الكئيب، فرأى وأغمضَ مُقلتَيه، وغابَ في الليلِ البهيم. وارتَجَّ في حَلقِ الدخان خيالُ نافذةٍ تُضاء، والريحُ تَعبَثُ بالدُّخَان… الريحُ تعبثُ، في فتورٍ واكتئابٍ، بالدُّخان، وصَدَى غِناء… ناءٍ يُذكِّرُ بالليالي المُقمِرَات… وبالنخيل، وأنا الغريبُ أظلُّ أسمَعُهُ… وأحلمُ بالرحيل في ذلكَ السوقِ القديم. — بدر شاكر السياب، كَتَبَها أثناء عمله مدرسًا للغة الإنكليزية في مدينة الرمادي عام 1948