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Insightful Philosophy

The Key Element to Fulfillment

Imagine What Muhammad Ali Could Have Done

Updated: Oct 12, 2022

...if the world fostered his bright spark and protected one of the most brilliant minds that has ever existed, as opposed to capitalizing from its most shallow nature, for grotesque entertainment?





He wasn't a star because he had the potential to be the greatest heavyweight champion. He was a star because he was so bright that the sky was the limit for him, he could create impulses and produce elements faster and deeper than anyone had seen. And this world used and abused him.




With every punch, he lost a little of his spark. With every fight, he fell further and further away from the source of his sense of fulfillment, and only became more and more vulnerable to the dark pressures and parasites that surrounded him and enticed him to continue on this fruitless path.


Fighting was never Cassius Clay's path, it was what the people around him who lacked the current to see the world for the insecure and weak place it truly was, reduced themselves and others around them to. They lacked the insight to see in themselves what this young mind saw within himself.

But it wasn't just within him, he saw that bright potential within everyone able to see people for more than their race and their position on the social depth chart of respect. He saw people born into places of security, without themselves discovering that sense for themselves, and without it they are nothing but terrified little children, afraid to lose the status that they were never able to achieve on their own. A sense of humanity in which he and people like him were not granted, and worse they were dehumanized, in service of the insecurities and of the most blind and meek.



He spoke so eloquently for a nigger, they thought. How could he put these sentences together in this way? How can he dig so deep, and see the world so uniquely? How is he so secure?


The ocean of shallow dark morons surrounding him, in awe of something they couldn't understand, something they instinctually knew they couldn't grasp. His light was getting brighter and brighter, and his power and influence was growing with every punch, every bout, every title defence and every person who looked at him and knew that regardless of his skin colour or background, they could never measure up 1-on-1.


And there is nothing more terrifying for people who ground their self-esteem on being able to not only measure up, but out-measure and out-fortune people based on genetics and "class."


Class has nothing to do with etiquette, intelligence or material charity. Class has everything to do with how we measure humanity, and the affect our impulses and elements have both in the current of the world, and the current within oneself.

But with every punch, every drink, every pay check, every shallow compliment and every single trinket and piece of flare they put in front of him, only pulled him away from the person he was meant to become, and he slowly began to lose that bright spark, that sense of direction. That sense of momentum. And chipped away day by day at his integrity, suffocated his sharp wit that got him to those heights in the first place. It wasn't his fists, it was the spark behind the fists.



They thought they stripped him of his title, by his refusal to fight in Vietnam. But what they stripped of him was something far far more profound and priceless, for more everlasting than the praise and applause and ascension by his shallow peers of his dark age.



There is not a medal, title or a sense of adulation that he wouldn't trade to reclaim the spark that the world took from him, and from the future generations that could have looked up to him for something more than for-profit suffering and shallow nature. He just can't tell you with his voice anymore, but his journey says it all. And so will time.

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