A DECOMPOSED CORPSE

A DECOMPOSED CORPSE

 

 

 

 

 

––A decomposed corpse in its unending cells; every cell containing a sum of vibrations; all the cells whirling in a vortex; the detachment of all the organs in the tremor of individuation; the return of life to its prime material, to the first memories

 

 

I only love the one who goes beyond there is; the one who can feel his beginnings and the things that precede them; the one who remembers the times when he was not him, the one who jumps in anticipation of individuation.

 

He who has not trembled realizing the deep meaning of individuation, has understood nothing of this world, because he will never have sensed the zones of his beginnings, nor will he able to foresee the moment of his own end. Individuation reveals our birth as an isolation and death as a return. The one who doesn’t cultivate this isolation doesn’t love life, nor does the one who doesn’t fear return, love life.

 

The fact that almost no one loves return proves something else, namely that this is the path towards the world in which we have no name. Individuation gives life a name. We all have a name; the world which precedes individuation is the life without a name, it is the life without a shape. Only individuation gives life a shape.

 

This is why the crashing of individuation in death is a disfiguring. Man doesn’t love his face, which is an accident, but its shape, which is a metaphysical sign.

 

The trembling of individuation is an antecedent of disfiguring, it is the suspicion about losing our world. Man is a world within a world. ––The way to re-returning goes through death, or who knows?––re-return ends in death.

 

We make our connection to what preceded individuation by going down the spiral of our natural character, dwelling in ourselves, conquering the isolation of our shape, trans-figuring ourselves towards our beginnings, but not transfiguring ourselves by losing the figural sense of our individuation, in death.

The life that was before we were we, we love through return; our eyes are turned towards our beginnings, towards the initial anonymity. We return to where we haven’t been before, but where everything else was; we go towards the infinite potentiality of life, from which actuality and the inherent margin of individuation got us out.

We return every time we love life with an infinite passion and we are dissatisfied with the barriers of individuation; every time we discover to our enthusiasm the roots beyond our figural finitude. Return is a vital transfiguration; re-return a metaphysical disfiguring. Return is a mysticism of the vital sources; re-return is a horror of final loses.

 

Life is behind us, because we came of it; life is the supreme memory. Individuation got us out of the world of beginnings, that is, out of potentiality, out of the infinite becoming, from a world in which the roots are trees, and not ephemeral sources of the illusionary trees, of being…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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