Lenin takes down the philosophers of old, those who would sell their ‘souls’ to have but an ounce of logic, they want to believe, but want to deny.
Born into a world of logic, their meanderings are tragic, they want to be Marxist, a respected line, but cannot depart from ‘no matter, no time’.
What matters is, they think the world wouldn’t exist, without some human input, an idealist trope, where they sit down and hope, that the world after death will be better. Unfettered ideas fly as they try to combine the material with the ideal.
Lenin deals them a hand, the world is not planned, their ideas are built on sand, which slips through their fingers, but their questions still linger in every philosophical school, ruled over by intellectual fools, who tell us the world is unknowable, that growing discontent isn’t meant to be serious, that furious people can hope for a better heaven, just wait a while, stay put where you are, don’t even think about reading Harpal Brar, or Lenin or Stalin, Marx or Engels, wait for the advent of angels and deny the world around you exists,
That sunkissed beaches and darkened forests, the history we build upon, the relatives dead and gone, are all a figment of your own, and very own imagination.
This ideation is at the wrong station, Lenin tells them again and again, but they prattle on that Marx was wrong, all under the veneer of helping the workers, they are intellectual shirkers, confusing themselves and everyone else, and confounding language.
We must gauge for ourselves the value of the real, what we feel is not distanced from the world around us, the world still exists behind us, unobserved, and the universe will still be here, when all life has ceased to be, sat in the dark of eternity, and we will not see that day. But it will be there.
