Recently, I went to the store to get some of my favorite cheese. After grabbing the cheese, I was looking for some bread to eat it on. I initially selected some flat, hollow bread designed for this sort of thing, but then saw some tomato bread, so I got that instead. I briefly pondered getting both, but decided to save money and just get the one. After I got home, I found that my roomates had in the fridge a thing of the same kind of bread I didn't get. False patterns. A mystic would attempt to draw some kind of meaning out of this. It couldn't be a coincidence, they'd cry. Their fallacy is clear -- when you look at all sides across a slice of reality, they find patterns everywhere and never any predictions. Hatred of the mystic attitude. And yet, to criticise it, I must have a fragment of it within me -- at least as a predictive mechanism. Occasionally, I feel their pull -- the christian, the mystic, the islamic, the conservatives, liberals, communists, and other fragments compelling me this way or that. They are my doubts, my demons.
Could it be that a love of the grapefruit, the sourness, the relish of pain, like a lemon, is a cousin to mainstream masochism? Is it the same thing? I have grown to dislike the pure sweet -- like religion, the candy thoughts, the sugars, I have surpassed for more deep, sublime feelings. I will not lick the head of Deus. Truth is my grapefruit.