QUOTE (SPQR @ Oct 30 2005, 08:13 PM)
What were the conditions that locked your consciousness into that specific body which is yours? yes.. look down... can you see it? thats your body... so why are you in that body... its because you have something called a soul... and it was destined to be there

Your body and your soul are one. Only people who hate thier body chose to create a concept of the soul. When your BODY is sick is your soul not also affected? When your body is weak is your soul not weakened? WHen your soul is weak is your body not weaker? NO IT IS THE BODY, YOUR SOUL IS MERELH PART OF YOR BODY! It is not seperate from it! The weak created an independant soul, independant from the body because they despised thier bodies, they depised thier bodys becauset hier souls were weary! It wanted to reject life so they created an afterlife to which they could escape to, but there is no afterlife, there is only your body, your body is your soul, your soul is your body.
Your arguements are weak for they rely on subjectivity, like all relgions and aspects of the metaphysical they cannot be measured and they can also not be proved i also realise that i cannot prove my arguemtns either, this is the fallcacy of debating religion. You cant prove anything from it.
From the Iron Heel by Jack London.
"As you say, you do not understand," Ernest replied. "The
metaphysician reasons deductively out of his own subjectivity. The
scientist reasons inductively from the facts of experience. The
metaphysician reasons from theory to facts, the scientist reasons
from facts to theory. The metaphysician explains the universe by
himself, the scientist explains himself by the universe."
Personally i believe in Nietzches ideas about the soul and body, your soul....IS your body. All you who worship the soul are despisers of the body, decadents!
From Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Freiedrich Nietzhe.
3. The Afterworldly
ONCE on a time, Zarathustra also cast his delusion beyond man, like all the afterworldly. The work of a suffering and tortured God, the world then seemed to me.
The dream- and fiction- of a God, the world then seemed to me; colored vapors before the eyes of a divinely suffering one.
Good and evil, and joy and pain, and I and you- colored vapors did they seem to me before creative eyes. The creator wished to look away from himself,- and so he created the world.
Intoxicating joy it is for the sufferer to look away from his suffering and forget himself. Intoxicating joy and self-forgetting, the world once seemed to me.
This world, the eternally imperfect, an eternal contradiction's image and imperfect image- an intoxicating joy to its imperfect creator:- thus the world once seemed to me.
Thus did I too once cast my delusion beyond man, like all the afterworldly. Beyond man?
Ah, my brothers, that God whom I created was man-made and madness, like all gods!
Man he was, and only a poor fragment of man and ego. Out of my own ashes and glow this ghost came to me. And verily, it did not come to me from the beyond!
What happened then, my brothers? I overcame myself, the suffering one; I carried my own ashes to the mountain; I created a brighter flame for myself. And lo! This ghost fled from me!
Now it would be suffering and torment to believe in such ghosts: now it would be suffering and humiliation. Thus I speak to the afterworldly.
It was suffering and impotence- that created all afterworlds; and the brief madness of bliss, which only the greatest sufferer experiences.
Weariness that wants to reach the ultimate with one leap, with a death-leap; a poor ignorant weariness, unwilling even to will any longer: that created all gods and afterworlds.
Believe me, my brothers! It was the body which despaired of the body- it groped with the fingers of the deluded spirit at the ultimate walls.
Believe me, my brothers! It was the body which despaired of the earth- it heard the bowels of being speaking to it.
And then it sought to get through the ultimate walls with its head- and not only with its head - into "the other world."
But that "other world" is well concealed from man, that dehumanized, inhuman world which is a heavenly nothing; and the bowels of being do not speak to man, except as man.
It is difficult to prove all being, and hard to make it speak. Tell me, my brothers, is not the strangest of all things the best proved?
Yes, this ego, with its contradiction and perplexity, speaks most honestly of its being- this creating, willing, valuing ego, which is the measure and value of things.
And this most honest being, the ego- it speaks of the body, and still implies the body, even when it muses and raves and flutters with broken wings.
It learns to speak ever more honestly, the ego; and the more it learns, the more titles and honors does it find for body and earth.
A new pride my ego taught me, and this I teach to men: no longer to bury one's head into the sand of heavenly things, but to carry it freely, a earthly head, which gives meaning to the earth!
I teach men a new will: to will this path which man has followed blindly, and to affirm it- and no longer to slink aside from it, like the sick and decaying!
The sick and decaying- it was they who despised the body and the earth, and invented the heavenly world, and the redeeming blood-drops; but even those sweet and sad poisons they borrowed from the body and the earth!
From their misery they sought escape, and the stars were too remote for them. Then they sighed: "O that there were heavenly paths by which to steal into another existence and into happiness!" Then they contrived for themselves their bypaths and bloody potions!
These ungrateful ones, they now hallucinated their transport beyond the sphere of their body and this earth,. But to what did they owe the convulsion and rapture of this transport? To their body and this earth.
Zarathustra is gentle with the sick. He is not indignant at their modes of consolation and ingratitude. May they become convalescents, men of overcoming, and create higher bodies for themselves!
Neither is Zarathustra indignant at a convalescent who looks tenderly on his delusions, and at midnight steals round the grave of his God; but sickness and a sick body remain even in his tears.
Many sickly ones have always been among those who muse and crave for God; violently they hate the discerning ones, and the latest of virtues, which is honesty.
They always look backward to dark ages: Indeed, delusion and faith were then something different. To rave reason was godlike, and to doubt was sin.
Too well do I know those godlike ones: they want that one should believe them, and that doubt should be sin. But I know too well what they themselves most believe.
Not in afterworlds and redeeming blood-drops: but in the body do they believe most; and their body is for them the thing-in-itself.
But it is a sickly thing to them, and gladly would they shed their skin. Therefore they hearken to the preachers of death, and themselves preach afterworlds.
Hearken rather, my brothers, to the voice of the healthy body; it is a more honest and pure voice.
More honestly and purely speaks the healthy body, perfect and square-built; and it speaks of the meaning of the earth.-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
4. The Despisers of the Body
TO THE despisers of the body I speak my word. I wish them neither to learn afresh, nor teach anew, but only to bid farewell to their own bodies,- and thus become silent.
"Body am I, and soul"- so says the child. And why should one not speak like children?
But the awakened one, the knowing one, says: "Body am I entirely, and nothing more; and soul is only the name of something in the body."
The body is a great wisdom, a plurality with one sense, a war and a peace, a flock and a shepherd.
An instrument of your body is also your small wisdom, my brother, which you call "mind"- a little instrument and toy of your great wisdom.
"I," you say, and are proud of that word. But the greater thing- in which you are unwilling to believe- is your body with its great wisdom; that does not say "I," but does "I."
What the sense feels, what the mind knows, never has its end in itself. But sense and mind would rather persuade you that they are the end of all things: so vain are they.
Instruments and toys are sense and mind: behind them there is still the Self. The Self seeks with the eyes of the senses, it listens also with the ears of the mind.
Always the Self listens and seeks; it compares, masters, conquers, and destroys. It rules, and is also the mind's ruler.
Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, there is a mighty lord, an unknown sage- it is called Self; it dwells in your body, it is your body.
There is more wisdom in your body than in your best wisdom. And who then knows why your body needs precisely your best wisdom?
Your Self laughs at your mind, and its bold leaps. "What are these leaps and flights of thought to me?" it says to itself. "A detour to my end. I hold the puppet-strings of the mind, and am the prompter of its notions."
The Self says to the mind: "Feel pain!" Then the mind suffers, and thinks how it may put an end to its suffering- and that is why it is made to think.
The Self says to the mind: "Feel pleasure!" Then the mind is pleased, and thinks how it may be pleased again- and that is why it is made to think.
I want to speak to the despisers of the body. Their contempt is caused by their respect. What is it that created respect and contempt and worth and will?
The creating Self created for itself respect and contempt, it created for itself pleasure and pain. The creative body created the mind as a hand for its will.
Even in your folly and contempt you each serve your Self, you despisers of the body. I tell you, your very Self wants to die, and turns away from life.
No longer can your Self do that which it desires most:- create beyond itself. That is what it desires most; that is its fervent wish.
But it is now too late to do so:- so your Self wishes to perish, you despisers of the body.
To perish- so wishes your Self; and therefore you have become despisers of the body. For you can no longer create beyond yourselves.
And that is why you are angry with life and the earth. An unconscious envy is in the sidelong glance of your contempt.
I do not go your way, you despisers of the body! You are no bridges to the Superman!-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
Nietzhe despised CHristianity, and i agree!