FRAGMENTS OF DISENCHANTMENT

FRAGMENTS OF DISENCHANTMENT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That the human race has not succumbed to mass suicide is only a testament to the intoxicating power of mass delusion.

Truth is utterly impossible. Nobody wants to tell it, and nobody certainly wants to hear it. What’s most absurd about man is that he not only allows himself to be taken in by the illusion of living — but such concealment is an absolute necessity for his survival. All of our petty wants, desires, hopes, and expectations — all for nothing! We entered this world a bawling wretch; and quickly leave just as empty handed. And the vicious cycle continues on in perpetuity.

 

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Could there be anything more pitiable than man’s ubiquitous propensity to exhaust the entirety of his being in the vain attempt to escape the horrors of existence? For what is most dreadful about what is is the is itself. There is only one truth: man is finite, and in his finitude, he has absolutely no power that will enable him to avoid total annihilation. The finite will always give way to the infinite; crushed and discarded into the oblivion of darkness; becoming one with the nothing.

 

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Unlike modern man, who covers the oozing ulcers of existence with the scab of illusion, the Ancient Greeks were all too aware of the tragic reality: “what is best — to have never been born; what is second best is to die soon.”

 

The sorrow of being is the misfortune of our being the type of beings for whom Being is an issue for it. This natural and lamentable structural feature of ourselves is the mother of all agony and the father of all despair; and, when viewed closely, the ensuing revulsion is so total, and so numbing that nothing can console us.

 

Man is plunged into a world that is neither prepared for, nor concerned with him. His regrettable coming into existence a disenchanting journey of untold misery and boredom. A mere worthless speck thrust about in the perpetual flux of infinite becoming — in other words, his entire condition painful, worthless, and uncertain. Seneca the Younger, tutor and advisor to Emperor Nero, put it best: “The whole concord of the world consists in discord.”

 

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Swept in the whirling winds of time, from dust to dust, existence is a futile, nebulous, and  caustic affair.

 

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What use is there in fearing death when the entirety of life is nothing but a rehearsal for the final scene? We do not really “die” when our bodily systems can no longer sustain life; but rather – we begin to die the moment we’re born. And thus our life nothing but a hike through the stages of decomposition. Biological death is the mere consignment of the last deplorable fragments to the grave.

 

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That we have forgotten Being is but now a truism. We have so sufficiently lost touch with our origins, and cut ourselves off from ourselves, that we are irreversibly heading towards but one conclusion: total annihilation. But this annihilation will not come in the form of nuclear holocaust or acts of terror, massacre, or genocide; it will come entirely from within. We are doomed, and not even a god can save us.

 

 

 

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