PHILOSOPHY IS THE LOVE FOR WISDOM

I make this clear: I am a philosopher, for I love wisdom, but I am as well an existential diagnostician, but not necessarily because I love existence, no... I am an existential diagnostician rather because I try to put my finger on the pulse of the day and I try to discern something about the tomorrow of it... and I cut wounds in the soft fats of life with a sharp knife of this wisdom, which I so professedly love, just to taste the blood-spurt therefrom, as to manage to say something about the nutritional value of the plasma; a jet of blood pulsates in short bursts out from the wound of life itself, and I, I am eager to drink it! Why? Because I want to see whether it is fresh or not, the existential plasma of blood: the glucose, is it sweet enough as to sugercoat existence? And the hemoglobin, does it carry oxygen enough to the lungs of existence without having become tainted by drugs and impurities of all kinds along the way? And if so, or if not so, what can it all tell me? What color might the iron-stench blood of the world possibly drench me with, except for its obvious crusty, vermillion redness? May there be some black in it, as to evoke a melancholia? May there be some white in it, the purity of heart and of spirit? Some purple, brown or yellow perhaps? I don't know really! But that is why I make it clear that I am a philosopher, for when I so do slice the fat of existence with my sharp and edgy knife, and when everything falls out therefom in chunks of purtenance and offal, how it lumps out of the fleshwounds like clots of death in total disarray... and what comes from the ordering of this visceral disarray, and what drives the aspiration towards it, if not wisdom, and the love for wisdom... and what is my reason for calling myself a philosopher if not for my instinct to taste the bitter iron of the blood of life itself?