Universes

Philosophy

philosophy

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I’ve encountered a few guys here on boo that claimed they know philosophy, but they ended up acting like the typical dude in the general population. 
This is far from my experiences with debating with either trained philosophers or guys that love philosophy and are self taught.

Is this app their place where they can let their frustrations out? Boast their ego? Or…

I find it very strange that someone that claims to know philosophy doesn’t actually understand what a debate is.

I’m wondering…

being aware is torture. It’s not poetic, it’s not noble. It’s just sitting with thoughts that gnaw at you like rats in the walls. You wake up knowing you're free to choose, but every choice feels rigged.  
I didn’t ask to be here. I just showed up one day, halfway between a panic attack and a cosmic joke.  
Anyway... anyone else feel like reality’s a poorly written novel?

Sometimes I wonder if consciousness is just a punishment we haven’t earned yet.

Why do you think treachery is the most evil sin in Dante's portrayal?

What's your personal Dante's inferno?

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Should sentience continue to be the benchmark for moral or evolutionary superiority in our minds — especially given how often it’s been used to justify flawed science and the abuse of other animals?

Periodical Pother

Well… where is he?

what is life

Breath. Stepback. Surrender. Let go. Let it come to u.

Sounds so simple

We create ourselves. Let’s Create the World

Do you think free will exists?

Iam very interested to know psychology and philosophy

Humans are the most vile creatures when you strip away the veneer of civility. Consider the priest who preaches compassion while molesting choirboys, the politician who champions “family values” while dismantling healthcare for the poor, or the suburban parent who donates to charity but calls the police on a Black neighbor for walking too slowly. We are architects of deceit, crafting kindness as camouflage. Demons, at least, are pure in their intent—when they slit a throat, they do not blame the victim for bleeding. They do not build statues to their own mercy. Their cruelty is honest, unadorned by the fairy tales we spin to sanctify ours.  

History is a ledger of our hypocrisy. The colonizers who carved up continents in the name of “civilization” wrote manifestos about saving souls while erasing cultures. The factory owner who profits from child labor in Bangladesh funds scholarships to “uplift the youth.” Even love becomes a weapon: the parent who beats their child “for their own good,” the partner who gaslights with a smile, whispering, “I’m only saying this because I care.” Demons need no such lies—their violence is a sacrament, offered without apology.  

And what of angels? They are little more than puppets, their “goodness” a script written by gods who demand obedience. An angel does not choose mercy; it follows code, a celestial algorithm. Their light is sterile, devoid of struggle. But humans? We KNOW the difference between right and wrong, yet we invent loopholes. We wage wars for “peace,” enslave for “progress,” and destroy ecosystems for “growth.” We are the only creatures who rationalize evil as necessity, who cloak greed in the language of virtue. A wolf kills to eat; a human kills to dominate, then writes poetry about the sunset.  

Animals, at least, are true to their nature. A scorpion stings because it must; a snake’s venom is not personal. But humans? We betray with a kiss. We genocide entire populations, then name streets after the survivors. We preach equality while building higher fences. Our smiles are currency, traded to mask contempt. Even our compassion is transactional—we perform charity for applause, donate just enough to ease our guilt. A hyena does not pretend to be a saint while picking bones clean.  

Yet here lies the bitter irony: our vileness is born from awareness. We are the only species tormented by conscience, yet we weaponize that very torment to justify fresh sins. “I’m only human,” we sigh, as though fallibility excuses atrocity. Demons do not apologize; angels do not waver. But humans—we sin, sanctify, and sin again, rewriting the narrative each time. We are not monsters. We are worse: monsters who believe our own fairy tales.  

Perhaps that is why hell fascinates us. It is a mirror.

Debatable Opinion about Human Nature

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Life has a greater purpose or meaning and devote yourself to it

Life has no inherent meaning or greater purpose as such and you create meaning in it

Life is just a random assortment of events happening to you while you just exist and experience it.

Which of these copium pills are you on?

You know what, I think Nietzsche wants me to misunderstand him. A lot.

I am very smart

Breath . Step back. Analyse.  Solve or throw away :)

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It is often spoken that love, happiness,empathy..are purest of the emotions,but i think hatered and anger are the purest among all,coz they can't b forged..
just thoughts 😌

Emotions

Why should I talk in codes when I want to be understood the most?

Ask yourself...

Let’s Make Each Other Smile 😊
Description: Drop your favorite quote or song lyric that always cheers you up. Let’s spread some positive vibes today! 🌈🎶💬

Late night Though

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We are born into a silent stage. No script tucked into our cradle, no prologue humming in our veins—only the weightless terror of an empty spotlight. And so we begin: sewing costumes from joy, carving props from sorrow, rehearsing anger until it feels like a song. We call it living—this desperate choreography to drown out the echo of a question too vast to name.  

Life, they say, is a distraction from life.  

We paint our days in primary colors—ache, ecstasy, ennui—and call it purpose. We knot ourselves to lovers, to clocks, to the myth of progress, as if the act of clinging could spin gravity from the void. Even suffering becomes a kind of sacrament: we wear our wounds like garlands, whispering, See? I am here. I am real. As though pain were a proof of existence, and not just another mask.  

Boredom is the blasphemy we cannot forgive. It slips through the cracks in our performance—a draft of wind from some unseen door. We fill it with noise, with screens, with the saccharine rush of want. But in its raw, unpolished silence, it hums a secret: You are more than your roles. The stage is not your cage.

Here is the paradox they never taught us—  
the universe is a mirror, not a maze.  

When you laugh, it laughs. When you bleed, it bleeds. The cosmos does not judge your script; it only echoes. You could spend eternity howling at the dark, demanding answers, or you could cup your hands around the flicker of a moment—the way steam curls from a teacup like a ghost, the way a stranger’s sigh contains whole lifetimes. These are not illusions. They are languages.  

Perhaps we’ve had it backwards all along. The mundane is not the enemy of meaning—it is the clay. A subway ride becomes a psalm if you listen to the rhythm of wheels on tracks. A Monday morning becomes a prayer if you notice how the light slants, gold and mortal, through the blinds. Even grief, when held gently, unfolds like a map to somewhere sacred.  

Do not mistake this for naive optimism. The void remains, patient and yawning. But there is a defiance in choosing to plant flowers at its edge. To say, Yes, the curtain will fall. Yes, the applause will fade. But tonight, I will dance in the ruins of my own certainties. Tonight, I will taste the peach as if it were the first and last—juice dripping down my wrist, a sacrament of flesh and nectar.  

We are not here to solve the riddle. We are here to love the asking.  

So let the drama unfold. Let the heart break and remake itself. Let boredom be your altar, where you kneel until the noise dies and you remember—you were never the actor.  
You are the stage.  
You are the silence beneath the song.

The Theater of Bare Attention

At long last, someone invents “the dream VCR.” This machine allows you to tape an entire evening’s worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the inventor of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device of you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family and your closest friends in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don’t agree to this, you can’t use the dream VCR. Would you still do this?

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When we observe how language shapes thought, we reclaim our ability to think freely — not just react.

Thoughts

Why is it that people are still not trusting their inner light and growing spiritually, everyone's it seems a sheep to follow their geographic religion. In a world where religion has done nothing but enslave and stop growth surely there's enough experience to grow out of this cancer that is mainstream religion.

Religion

Love that arrives as a backup plan isn’t love. It’s leakage.

Love

You can win...

Been There

When we speak of everything passing away, we do not speak of destruction as an end, but of the dissolution of illusions that hold us captive.

Our mind is like a glass full of water—filled with fears, images, stories, and expectations. When the glass breaks, the water spills out. And that is not loss, but liberation from what was merely the container.

All that we considered to be “I,” “my world,” are only reflections in the mirror of awareness. Images that arise and pass away. If we cling to these images, we suffer, for their natural state is impermanence and transience.

Meditation, awakening, the path of enlightenment—these are not about creating some new solid world, but about letting the impermanent pass away and discovering the infinite, unconditional Being that is the foundation of all.

This Being is not something we can lose, because it was never gained. It is not a thing, not a being, not a state of mind. It is the essential nature, the constant presence that is always here—even when all else dissolves.

It is precisely in this dissolution of “everything” that the greatest freedom reveals itself. Because freedom is not about “having something or someone,” but about non-attachment—about being without stories, without searching, without fear.

Thus, passing away is not a final loss, but the end of suffering caused by clinging. It is awakening to what could never be lost.

And in this presence, which is beyond time, true joy and peace arise. Not joy of something, but joy of complete emptiness, which is simultaneously complete fullness.

This emptiness is not a void without life, but infinite possibility and freedom. It is the silence in which all worlds quietly pulse, yet without any attachment.

This is the goal of all spiritual paths—not to find something new, but to shed all that prevents us from seeing that we have long been free.

When you understand this, you will no longer seek meaning “outside.” Meaning will reveal itself as the very presence of Being, independent of all that appears unstable and transient.

And so it happens that the passing away of all relative things is not an end, but the deepest beginning without beginning.

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On freedom

A Boo community for meeting other Philosophy enthusiasts.

Philosophy Community

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I’m wondering…

Sometimes I wonder if consciousness is just a punishment we haven’t earned yet.

What's your personal Dante's inferno?

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Where Stillness Speaks

Philosophy

Actions over word

Who said ? What are you afraid of losing when nothing in this world belongs to you?

I was today years old when I came to know that platonic has to do with plato's philosophy on relationships

What is Philosophy to you?