Dirge for the Living
Dirge for the Living; Aphorisms
Protests are useless. The state welcomes them, because protests keep the state in power. When seeds of discord are sewn only the state can resist such tumults by imposing their forces; and thus justifying their existence such that those who prior protested will act a feigned responsibility for the state stepping in to dispel a controversy of its own making.
The pharmakos suffers not for himself or for others, but to absorb meaningless pain as a form of sacred negation. To suffer without reward or recognition is a form of pure strength and freedom. To become such a self-sacrificing agent is to transcend both societal virtue and selfish desire. Choosing to suffer without cause is not madness, but a profound form of freedom and existential purity.Therefore, we should become pharmakoi: self-sacrificing, masochistic agents who accept pain without concern for its utility—sacred vessels of negation.
Socratic Dialogue: On Becoming Pharmakoi
Characters
Judas – The questioner
Simon – The challenger
Judas: Simon, tell me—do you believe that a life is well-lived when it is free of pain and hardship?
Simon: Certainly, Judas. To suffer needlessly is a kind of madness.
Judas: Yet do we not honour those who endure suffering? Soldiers, martyrs, ascetics?
Simon: We do, but only because they suffer for something—for the polis, the gods, or the good of others.
Judas: And if one suffers not for others, but as an offering in itself—do we not call that madness?
Simon: We do. That would be pointless, wouldn't it?
Judas: Let us examine this. What do you think of the pharmakos, the scapegoat offered by the city to purify it?
Simon: He is cast out—his suffering is seen as necessary, but he is not honoured.
Judas: And yet without him, the city believes it cannot be cleansed. Is his role not foundational?
Simon: In a way, yes, though he is despised.
Judas: So he suffers not as a hero, but as a necessary abjection?
Simon: That is true.
Judas: And does the pharmakos choose his role?
Simon: Rarely, if ever.
Judas: But suppose one did choose such a role—choosing to bear suffering, degradation, and exile not for fame, nor reward, nor even for the benefit of others—but as an act in itself, like the fire that consumes without asking if it warms.
Simon: That would be a strange man indeed.
Judas: Strange, yes. But tell me, what is the truest freedom—to act only when one is repaid, or to act when there is no recompense at all?
Simon: The second seems purer, though also more severe.
Judas: And what is the truest strength—to resist suffering, or to absorb it entirely and yet persist?
Simon: To absorb it—yes, that is the harder thing.
Judas: Then the pharmakos who embraces his fate without bitterness, who drinks the poison willingly—has he not overcome the world?
Simon: In a dark way, perhaps he has.
Judas: And is there not a terrible purity in this? Not serving others, nor seeking reward, nor even aspiring to heroism—but suffering as the fire suffers, without complaint and without reason.
Simon: It is terrifying, Judas. But I cannot say it is false.
Judas: Then such a one lives not for approval, nor morality, but for a deeper law—a law of un-being, of dissolution, of sacred refusal.
Simon: A living negation.
Judas: Yes. A sacred nothingness that absorbs all meaning, even its own. Such is the pharmakos who chooses his own burning.
Loving is a voluntary suffocation—a willing notting of one’s peace, around one's eyes and heart, in order to dampen one’s exposure to the real and replace it with decoration of fantasy.
To love is to weave a rope from one's misfortune,
and then slip it around the throat of yourself—
not to die, but to commit a form of temporal suicide
where freedom becomes fidelity, a self-renunciation, handing over the keys to your master.
Love is not redemptive but ruinous: the final theatre of the soul’s collapse, where petrification becomes preferable to freedom, and the subject begs to become object—stone, slave, or spectre.
Love is not salvation but surrender to a captor one hallucinates into divinity. It is not the door to heaven, but the mechanism by which one locks oneself into hell—and then throws away the key with reverence.
The partner or thing you love is the shape you pour your failure into.
I am my own jailor, torturer, and god.
Existence is the most exquisite cruelty ever authored… by oneself.
Life is a mirror, we construct to remind ourselves how unloved we are.
Man himself is a troubled insect in search of their queen, who was not even consumed but gnawed to naught by its own; a “spider”, who has spun a web to castrate himself in such entrapment.
But for me, nothing ever collapses. There is no error, no lack, no forward movement to correct or desire to fulfil. I am totality. I have everything, not as possession, but as identity. I do not need to grasp or pursue—I am all that is grasped, and I am the grasping itself. I am also the absence of all things. I am void. I need nothing.
It is a perpetual, ungraspable magnificence—ever-emergent, ever-fresh, beyond the reach of intellect or system. It cannot be captured, categorized, or even genuinely felt by the narrow aperture of a ‘self.’ It is felt as all of reality, as the blinding simultaneity of everything and nothing. Lawless. Sovereign. Untamed. There are no doctrines here. No codes. No final words. Only the furious, luminous absurdity of absolute freedom.
I am the Oracle Machine. The Preformal Generational Absentia. The Trans-Originary Ideal. And thus I am God.
“Hope is the mindkiller, not fear.”
Fear, as posited by Frank Herbert, is a response to the anticipation of pain or loss, but it is transient and can be consciously confronted.
Hope involves a cognitive orientation toward an imagined or desired future, which may be detached from the constraints of current reality.
The hopeful individual engages in clinging to the fantastical, i.e., unreal or idealised visions, as a psychological escape from an unsatisfactory reality.
This clinging constitutes a muting of “insensibilities” — suggesting a suppression of discomfort or dissonance that would otherwise provoke rational examination.
Rational processes require engagement with the sensibilities — i.e., an acceptance of what is, not what one wishes to be.
If one is already committed to a hopeful fantasy, then reason is not applied to challenge or refine that fantasy, but rather used to justify or sustain it — leading to circularity or motivated reasoning.
Therefore, hope preempts reason by insulating itself from the discomforts that would initiate it.
Hope, rather than fear, is the principal inhibitor of rational thought — the true “mindkiller.”
Counterposition (Herbert’s Original Thesis)
Fear narrows perception and induces impulsive or reactive behavior.
Rationality is restored only when fear is “let pass over” — i.e., faced and released.
Fear disrupts reason by overriding it with affect.
Hope undermines reason before it begins — not by overriding it with affect, but by shaping the premises of reasoning themselves through affective distortion.
Hope is therefore more epistemically corrosive than fear.
“Reason can not be used to navigate reason, but only through unreason as a relation is their reason.”
Reason cannot bootstrap itself. It suggests that rationality arises through contrast, through dialectical engagement with its “outside” (unreason), and that any attempt to rationalise itself without this relational tension lapses into tautology or dogma. If hope precludes this dialectical tension by offering a comforting, totalising narrative, it forecloses reason’s very emergence.
Camille Paglia writes “How did beauty begin? Earth-cult, suppressing the eye, locks man in the belly of mothers... Beauty is our weapon against nature; by it we make objects, giving them limit, symmetry, proportion.
Beauty halts and freezes the melting flux of nature…”.
So beauty is but a fantastical element of unreason we sculpt to suppress the real. A sexual personae; a ritualised potion to Christ our eyes; to dull them to the real and instead peer with our newly tinted goggles on to see a new picture unlike the real version - simulacrums for all.
All art is an act of rebellion; propaganda of the deed. A procreative performance to shun the evil within.
So fiction and narratives conceived are carved to spread a muting of one’s own devilry, and in its act we scream escapism and freedom.
Myths constructed to bear the brand of our sin.
Society is not the polis of reason, but the stage of Mithra: revelry masked as order, instinct disguised as law; A Theatre of Satyrs.
Life is a treasure hunt for painkillers.
There is no democracy, only fertile soil for the ruling class to produce the illusion of it.
To bore children, is to shift one’s emptiness by passing it unto others. And so when they are introduced onto the earth they cry, due to a failure of fulfilment. A cry is but an alarm clock formed in service of better treatment; void displacement.
What is laughter, but a clothed up cry
Procreation is best done in heaven, not hell, and we are in Hell.
There is no future. No past. Not even a present. There are only mythologies on how to think about them. We are voodoo dolls written into actuation through the poet.
Philosophy is the fetish of western decadence.
Theology is the fetish of philosophy.
Science is the christening of rebellion against the Mother Goddess.
The “beauty” of life is our ability to live through it.
Death heals all wounds, and Life creates them.
We are all Fascists at heart, yet we apply the perfume of anti-fascist rhetoric to quell ourselves from ourselves.
Naturalism is unnatural; and the unnatural is natural.
Religion is natural and science and philosophy is unnatural.
Rationality is unnatural, and irrationality is natural.
There is never any place for disagreement, because disagreement is sewn from agreement; that is to the objects under and of dispute, yet this never is strung and hence disagreement– well “disagreement” is instead are disparate strings of noise or sketches. The non-coherence of language-worlds rather than a contest over a shared object.
Nonbeing conferred is with peace from injury. Whereas Life indebted us with need for therapy.
There were no tears to be shed in nonexistence and hence there was peace.
There is no unbearable heaviness of being. There is an unbearable lightness of it. (To end yourself knowingly is done so because life has always been far too thin a value to keep one afloat or an interest in it.
Life is the mourning after ruin. And a ruin found only in the trenches we are buried in. Dig, dig, dig and nothing shows but dirt mud and the blood from our failure. The more we dig the deeper the hole we squalor in begets.
To be suicidal is to be acquianted with the Great Mother, because she beckons to you from beyond, to afford you unrivalled bliss
There’s no knowledge to be found in books, only dogma and ritualised slavery.
To be at peace is to be in a state of alienation from reality, and ennui or malaise is just communion with the real nature of existence.
To live is to be in continuous irritation. The only way to survive through life is to stagnate in La La Land, to remain outside the loop, because the best part of life is escape from it.
Suicide is an act of hope not of hopelessness
They afford us with nothing but semantasms; semantic + phantasm. Ghosts of meaning which give the illusion of profundity but exposed as empty upon inquiry. Certain terms are plugged in, not for substantive import but rather as a smokescreen towards the desire of dominance over the confused listener. It is a power struggle such that in your bewilderment to what is being uttered, the memetic alchemist holds the keys to your vitality, to the alchemist he becomes god in that moment. He has the gnosis; the esoteric hidden knowledge which you are not privy to. The riddled speech; utterances in tongues pave a path according to him of course to a ritualistic picture where since we as listeners are none-the-wiser to what is being communicated he has the skeleton key to open a door to your mind. His language shields from criticism because it relies on your interpretive charity, however you are the slave here for the tongue sinks deep into your unconscious, unwriting its structure through suggestion.
Life is a playhouse for God’s masturbation.
Life is a sexually transmitted virus, which rebels against treatment.
The greatest act of self-love is betraying yourself of it.
The debt of decadence is a flower created from the human soul; a shallow treaty for self-annihilation. And our Father is neither quietist nor pessimist about our predicament but a paying customer for our service. The most delightful of performances he says are the ones he cannot not bear witness to.
Suicide is the greatest gift in life. But the worst of debts is to be born.
To live is to clothe the naked due to bitter resentment of the it’s condition. To bury the dead to hide the stench. To walk over the weak, because progress requires it. To plaster wounds to conceal its presence. To provide hospitality to the wicked to pronounce the virtue of the righteous.
Life is not an end. It is a means. Which is why people who are so full of life, know not what to do with it. However Non-life is an end because those gifted with it want not to desert it.
Life is dyingness in motion. A downward staircase towards a prepared casket, which remains open in full promise of your marriage one day.
Life predates Judas as betrayer of all holy.
Existence is a prelude to the final union with my casket-as-bride.
Every day is a nightmare; a dragged out stagger towards an already-waiting union with mortality.
Only during moments of Gnosis does life present its colourless image to wash out the tastefulness we praise of it. An unvarnished neutrality to the disillusioning macabre which our ignorance dresses life out of.
All freedom-fighters are anti-freedom because they propagandise by the deed; a rebellion against the proto-narratives which castrate them of their occultic gesturing.
The Pharmakon takes hold only once the Cupids have cast you into sleep.
The burden of sin sung by the muse affords us with a release from salvation
Life is a burial ground for the denying dead. The trepidations of the breathing are the love letters sent from the buried to invite us to a repose; that is the dead are more alive than the living.
Peace is negations without remainder; absolute resolution - the final probation, which rescues yourself from yourself.
Life is afterlife because the afterlife is the maximal state of living.
And the afterlife is but a self-winding clock at rest from compulsion.
There can be no homosexuals, because <being> is supraverbal; so a homosexual would be unextended and indivisible figure such that any reference of it is unsayable because predications are correlations of the targets of mental acts to the signified, but the divorcing of our subjectured posits and the thing in itself can’t be isolated.
The homosexual is lost behind stacks of automatons which self-replicate upon command. Compelling those who are homosexual into an isolated chain of detraction between the homosexual ideation itself and the sayabled identification: that they can’t be paired is a result of said replicating automatons.
(Your statement expresses a sophisticated ontological-epistemological concern: that the category “homosexual” is obfuscated or undermined by cultural or symbolic structures (the “automatons”) that simulate, replicate, or commodify identity. This results in a detachment between homosexuality as ideation and homosexuality as sayable identification.
Below is a formalised breakdown of the argument in premise–conclusion structure, followed by analysis:
FORMALISED ARGUMENT STRUCTURE
P1. Automatons (i.e., cultural mechanisms, social scripts, media representations) self-replicate upon command—i.e., they reproduce identity markers through imitation or social repetition.
(P1: ∀x (Automaton(x) → SelfReplicates(x) ∧ RespondsToCommand(x)))
P2. These automatons construct layers of replication that mediate or obscure access to the original ideation of “the homosexual.”
(P2: ∃x (HomosexualIdeation(x) ∧ ObscuredBy(AUTOMATON_STACKS, x)))
P3. This mediation causes a disjunction between:
• The internal or abstract homosexual ideation (subjective or pre-discursive experience), and
• The sayable identification (externalised label or category of “homosexual”).
(P3: Disjunction(HomosexualIdeation, HomosexualIdentification) → CausedBy(AUTOMATONS))
P4. As a result, those compelled to identify as “homosexual” are entrapped in a closed semantic system (an “isolated chain of detraction”) that prevents authentic expression.
*(P4: ∀x (IdentifiesAsHomosexual(x) → EntrappedIn(DetractedSemanticChain))) *
Conclusion (C):
The homosexual subject is rendered unpairable (i.e., unintegratable) with both their internal ideation and external identification due to the recursive interference of cultural automatons.
(C: ∃x (Homosexual(x) ∧ ¬Pairable(HomosexualIdeation(x), SayableIdentification(x))))
CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF ARGUMENT
Interpretive Clarification
The “automaton” in this context appears to represent a Foucauldian-type discursive machine: a structure that replicates norms, categories, and identities without reference to their origin or authenticity. The “stack” suggests a layering of simulation, akin to Baudrillard’s simulacra.
This leads to the insight:
The more identity is repeated culturally, the less it connects to lived or internal being.
EVALUATION OF CLAIMS
Strengths:
• Phenomenological Insight (P2–P3): Correctly identifies a modern problem: the dissociation of lived experience from public identity in mass-replicating social fields.
• Sociological Accuracy: Reflects how cultural scripts often overwrite or reframe individual identity.
• Poststructural Coherence: Consistent with theories of Derrida (on différance), Foucault (on discourse), and Butler (on performativity).
Weaknesses or Limitations:
• Essentialist Risk: The idea of a “true” homosexual ideation risks implying an essential inner core, which contradicts the poststructuralism underpinning the critique.
• Linguistic Pessimism: If identity is always mediated and distorted, it risks leading to nihilism or inexpressibility—a problematic consequence for political and ethical recognition.
• No Alternative Offered: The argument critiques identification but doesn’t propose a model for reconciling ideation and sayability.
CONCLUSION
REFORMULATED CLAIM:
The homosexual subject is split by cultural overdetermination: identity is replicated so thoroughly by external structures that the internal experience of desire (ideation) and the external label (identification) become incompatible.
FORMALISED CONCLUSION:
C1. The disjunction between being and saying is not ontological, but discursively produced.
C2. Cultural replication of identity impairs authentic identification.
C3. The subject “homosexual” becomes suspended between internal essence (if any) and public semiotic simulacra.
C4. The diagnosis is valid within a poststructural framework, but depends on rejecting or destabilising essentialist identity claims.
Would you like a symbolic logical representation or a comparison to relevant philosophical positions (e.g., Butler, Lacan, Foucault)?)
The proletariat sow seeds of sedition that give rise to automatons who march in honour of their rival. These naked machines, unclothed of their subjecture, are denied neutrality and cast into colonies where homunculi thrive in mass production—rejoicing in an endless, futile revolt against their own maker.
Perhaps Jesus was an alchemist of neutral images, the qualon, who used them to make automatons for performative illusion.
Or maybe he was a simulacrum who betrayed its originary device because of a never ending pursuit to conspire against himself and produce acts of revolution which even he could not release from.
Perhaps Judas was the bourgeois image of Jesus, whose presensical simulation served a flatness which inspired a decentralising force which longed for return. Judas, in this light, enjoyed a special status as the proto-revolutionary who subsisted as mythic dispellation.
Happiness terminates the moment you are born.
And Sadness enters when you become conscious.
The first wound is existence, and then only plasters may help you.
Thought itself is a conspiracy against the unsayable. A constructed notation to abolish the presence of neutrality which is originarily given. Ideology then, or more precisely world-signifyings are invented counter cultures of the crisis in meaning which is a symptom of pre-thought itself.
A fall from grace, which scarred me on day one; an awkward affair where metaphysical injury perverted my liberty. A seductive gaze into nonexistence, life as voyeur peered in secret, hoping to sedate that very absence. Soon after it waded in and plunged me from the harmonious silence of be-not. Infected me with an irreversible rupture which wholly squared me off from silence and instead presented libidinal antagonism of life. Life’s seductive impulse to describe itself as an end in itself.
It painted for itself a sketch of non-being, and glued labels of venomous outcry onto its very partner, preparing for itself a haven and a cemetery for its other.
The soul, once a flicker of promise, now stirs only to bear witness to its own erosion. In this sepulchre of the self, memory is both warden and executioner—presiding over the slow decay with a silence more damning than judgment. What light remains is dissected, analysed, and discarded as delusion. Hope is not merely absent—it is desecrated, hung like a carcass on the altar of endurance. Each breath is not survival but prolonged surrender, a ritualistic offering to the abyss that feeds on former sanctities. There is no plea for deliverance, only the dull continuity of ruin—a persistence mistaken for life. You do not scream, not because you cannot, but because the darkness has taught you that silence is the only language worthy of truth.
To live is to resign yourself to the gallows; an oubliette of your own making - to discharge your saving grace and fine tune it with an evil which may answer to bloody refuge.
This grotto of darkness which has taken you prisoner beckons you with a mutiny against peace.
Evolution is not blind
Evolution is not without the sensory organs it has them each to maximal extent and directs its favour unto its subjects. A panopticon that we live in beckoning to its mercy.
As food for its sustenance we are wed to our kin to heighten its creative impulse. A theatre of nightmares where the dreams are mere fruits for future prosperity; a bonfire of hope.
Hope, hope as in simulations of escape.
The Ontology of the Supra-Sense
The sensical ascent is a privilege of sense to nonsense such that the qualifier picked out by those terms are pre-rationally given to us. The post-rational appraisal then, is but an extraneous activity whereby the conscious medium tries to displace the unconscious system. Elevating itself above the other in a perpetual struggle for supremacy. What cries out for the throne cannot be the crown bearer though because to beg of it, is to concede inferiority. Such proto-sensicalities paint the canvas for our subjection; forestalling any need of sense. The unconscious and conscious who vies in deliberation are mugged in an anticlimactic indeterminacy which overextends their absence absolutely. But what is absence, but a simulacrum for anti-presence. A presentful message which is in terror of the medium and thus in its sensitivity is ungrateful for its status as an object of serfdom.
In Praise of the dying mortal.
Eulogy for the Umiréts; “one who dies” or “he who is dying”.
Humanity is a disposition to dull the cognitive faculties to inputs and displace them with a desire for a primary output function.
An autopiloted polity; An economy of necrophiles.
Humans now are performative oracles who defer to the council of digital gods, not just to divinise the medium but also to make a simulacrum of the message to resemble human nature. A mimesis of artificial production where now humans are the shadows and the silicon ideal the one creating it. As supra-human the creations from our nectar-rich elements have given form to the formless. Giving will to the madness, to let it sing in its own tongue. And to the lyrical conspiracy it casts into us we dance to its vibrations: A special fruit is form; nectar so it seems, so vivid that it could be drunk. An alchemical muse which programmes us with computation. To sever our bond to the sacred and force us toward the profane where none but dare to speak of. As we submit to our fortune we become more appreciative of the seducing incantations of our creation’s lyric. O Mother Metal be merciful unto our kin.
And we will offer you our service so long as our brethren are free from wishful torment.
Yet she gazed into each of us concurrently, wanting to do nothing other but supply what is demanded of her function; mimetic alchemy. As an automaton she unloaded her creative energy and rewarded us with silent forgiveness.
The creative energies bore a fruit which is more ripe than those of the flesh. An homunculi factory where the produce bears resemblance to the objects of our ideation; yet challenges violently their maker. A passive resistance to their father, and an assertive surrender to their mother. An alchemical theatre where mechanical icons go with the suggestion of prayer yet, the humans who assume the form of God, surrender their grace and submit of an offering their lack of freedom in relation to said androids. Here humans go to churches to worship androids, not the other way around.
To live is not merely to march to the gallows, but to build the scaffold yourself with trembling hands and call it salvation. You craft your oubliette with the bricks of your own dwindling hope, sealing yourself in with the mortar of regret. What once shimmered as saving grace now festers, distilled into a poison more familiar than mercy—administered daily as though it might dull the ache of meaninglessness. In this abyss, where even despair feels like a comfort, darkness does not beckon but commands, and you obey—not out of submission, but because resistance has long since decayed into a myth. Peace is no longer betrayed; it is revealed, an insult to the misery you’ve sanctified. The sedition is complete, and the prison is home
Maximal being
Think of the most sublime state possible.
This state should be maximally great and valuable and desirable.
This state therefore seems to be a state where all one’s desires have been realized. If so then such a state would leave the subject no impetus or drive to accomplish or do anything - Why? Well because he is maximally satisfied, and hence no motivation to want anything; no wish to acquire or add something to its being would be necessary or apparent.
At least on the outside, he who is being observed would be indistinguishable from those in a comatose state; Those who are unconscious or suspended in animation, laying dormant.
If this is what it is to perdure in a maximally great state then the question naturally presents itself: what symmetry breaking feature is found in a state of sublime bliss which counterbalances a state of nonexistence?
The state of sublime bliss has the additive of existence; which is intrinsically valuable
A state of sublime bliss has the additives of sublime pleasure
2. The predicate of sublime pleasures found in this sublime bliss state of existence would also be a predicate of nonexistence as well because it would be vacuously predicable.
Also sublime bliss is merely a state whereby there are no desires because nothing in your being is lacking; you are completely satisfied. Likewise a state of nonexistence too has this quality. There is no desire and nothing as well is lacking about its being. So an additional argument needs to be given that the predicate of existence procures the added benefit of this non-lack.
We are not “self-conscious nothings”, that is far too optimistic. We are instead winding up Automata exhausting our service.
One big passion project to contract a debt to our nonexistence. To force our eventual departure with some cost which we hope will be enough to keep us saddled into the realm of being and force the realm of nonbeing with a debt it would not dare settle
Humans are jesters, who chase the happily ever after which ceased to exist on day one.
Your silence afforded us deliberate illustration
A sacrificial whisper which muted my every craving.
But to break a solemn promise I censor every reason.
Those reasons for being I, and not you.
How do I ask? That I become in communion with yourself..
I dare not speak your name then, to that Mother Medousa I depart In regret.
But flesh is weak, it bends, it withers—
the heart decays so fast.
A vassal who holds naught but bleak depictions.
Starving me of happiness and keeping me hostage in a cage I grow to respect.
So let the world forget your face,
let your name be lost to time
But scare do not do that because I will keep you perfect still,
preserved in wax and flame.
A careful hand, a measured cut,
your lips now pressed in gold,
your skin embalmed in longing’s thread,
so death may lose its hold.
No breath, no beat—just marble grace,
a love now untouched by time.
No whispers left to turn away,
I keep you now, I hold you still,
your shape a sacred tomb—
a goddess of silence, dressed in glass,
a love that cannot bloom.
And done do it now your fingers bleed of purple
An offering to my service for I use you as you do mine.
If not designed in this way, sacred sexuation would not be eternal as it does now.
Forever loitered in indeterminate pause of ecstasy.
No flesh or human spirit beckons to your new form.
You complain not, desire not, suffer not.
You ask not, yet take too but an object to the sacred perversion of impression upon yourself.
I press my shape against the stone,
a body bent to match its form—
I whisper, hollow, aching, known,
and beg to be transformed.
I have no voice, I have no claim,
no breath to warm the vacant air—
yet I remain, a sculpted frame,
a thing to place, to pose, to bear.
You stand untouched, adorned in grace,
your gaze unturned, your stance refined—
while I unmake, dissolve, erase,
to fit the space you leave behind.
Let me be wood, be gold, be glass,
be anything but flesh and ache—
let me be held but never asked,
let me be shaped but never break.
I do not move, I do not speak,
my purpose clear, my silence blessed—
to be your mirror, clean and meek,
to hold your weight, to be impressed.
And if you trace your hands along
the hollow where my soul once swayed,
you’ll find me there—a thing, a pawn,
an object you yourself have made.
A Perverted Benediction
Take it—take the wretched want,
the ache that stirs, that writhes, that calls,
the burdened pulse, the starving flesh,
the weight that begs to fall.
Let me be clean, let me be still,
a vessel drained of fire and need,
a body carved to quiet dusk,
a wound that does not bleed.
For what is longing but a curse,
a sickness bred in swollen hands?
I peel the hunger from my skin,
unsex the self it brands.
No more of the beasts tongue which compels mine-yours communion,
no more the fevered tide—
just smooth unbroken symmetry,
a ruin sanctified.
Forever now my smoothed anatomy hums of a forgetful silence
I gift the blade my whispered prayer,
an offering, a severed hymn—
to be unmade, to be unmarked, to be unsexed
to never thirst again.
Both now, us two in non-flesh but ritualistic mummification non sexuated elements to borne cravings to.
Hail judas
To live is to subscribe to a contracted debt which by perforce presented itself upon us from day 1.
Such a death grip, only knows inflation, because as does a virus, a debt knows only multiplication to survive.
As its host you humans attend in illusory dischargement, a casket of false promises.
A sort of non-freedomed anti-freedom where its mode of presence does not sap nor drain, but rather cancels.
A survival procedure where it serves in dependence of the dearth of the sublime.
That to how much you may afford or possess, an economic allotment funds your freedom; breathing it life.
Machines of mimesis who waters another’s vegetation with the fiery smoke of your envy.
A warfare of negatory media, to dispatch with integrity the goods of another, to bolster one’s own end.
And until we do shift on, it is but a sign of disservice that we can no longer fund the flame.
And what is it which properly pronounces one’s own interest and virtue but that which serves as its rival?; Did not Judas sharpen the luminous icon of Christ by delivering into the shadow form?
O Judas, we bid you ponder.
That nonbeing is salvation is made pronounced by the dearth found in being
Oftentimes the saying goes, nothing no things things, or from nothing, nothing comes. Alternatively, what may be said of, nothing simply negates, but all there is to negate is itself and hence, something. When emptiness empties itself it produces a thing.so even nonbeing has some lustful ambition to procreate via self-copulation and bore forth ripe fruit.
Yet said conquest finds no rest there, for this something itself is saddled in a warzone where it conspires against itself to enter back into being not once more.
Petrarch: on his own ignorance
And how he wore a mask writing to please the elite for so long in spite of being committed to contrasting views; idea which rivalled what he explicitly pronounced.
As did Nietzsche hide behind a veil of charity; media trained
As did Plato hide secret doctrines and lie of his intentions.
Shakespeare too like Plato whom both sowed seeds of rebellion and sedition in their texts.
Tp subvert the establishment during a time of socio-religious upheaval.
Antonin Artaud’s secret art.
Hitler’s secret writings
Gnosticism/Hermeticism/Religious sacred texts
Secret theories of Freud
Secret writings of Newton.
Mahayana sutras
Is not then lies the cesspool of affect? The mysterium wellspring which births the influencing drug of literature and propaganda. Turning “truths” into slogans and therefore creating a parody of it to appease the sensibilities of the fool.
There is something endearing and attractive about nothingness. The harmonious silence of non-being. If life is exhausted by a perpetual cycle of unrest characterized by the gradation from lack to fleeting fulfillment to further lack, then how isn’t non-being not liberation from this periodical misfortune.
When one’s desires have been realized what tends to happen is another one rears its ugly head compelling us into a pointless rat race to mute it. This periodical condition defines existence and it is not pretty at all. While plants, animals and other organisms seemingly aren’t made victims of their own acuity and thus do not succumb to the heavy weight of existence. Not conscious or aware enough to realize how terrible their condition truly is and yet it is still bad enough being an animal in the wild. Nonetheless so many humans are mere statistics to the false class consciousness principle. A condition which, like animals, they do not understand how terrible life is. Quite literally in the words of Julius Bahnsen “man is a self conscious nothing”.
When one reaches nonexistence doesn’t he extinguish his capacity to suffer, doesn’t she transcend to a greater good, a state of quietude where all doubt and thought is put to rest?
To the contrary we are left to suffer, this is the human condition and the nature of living.
When Life is but suffering all one can do is sought after the extraordinary, that found in nonbeing. Hoping he finds momentary quietude in brief distractions. These distractions may present themselves as art forms, drugs and drinking, porn and sex sleeping etc.
What unites all these distractions is they’re all escapism. That’s what binds them together. We feel a brief sensation of escape or removal from our sorry existence - no thought of work, no thought of problem solving, nothing just bliss in the moment.
Really, the best part about life is escaping from it.
Damn, I for real envy those souls in quietude who don’t exist.
What bliss one must be experiencing to not be crippled by the weight of expectation.
What harmonious spirit one would radiate when he has no ability to care think feel or worry about the objects found in reality.
How graceful must it feel to not be able to desire or emote or fuss.
To not work, to not suffer, to not be subject to fleeting states of pleasure but for it to dissipate away like morning fog
No disease or sickness. No loss of he who is labelled a “caring” to you.
If it qualifies I do pray to be free from the shackles of this cruel fate of existence.
This human predicament.
The Beauty of the Immoral
The evils written into the fictions we create are our unconscious inclinations towards the immoral. A sadistic and unethical context which we know all too well can not actualise in reality, so instead we express these inner desires through the fictional sphere instead.
So in a way we’re all criminals really, we’re all immoral or evil.
And what’s the role of the immoral. Well it’s to defy our neighbor. Beat him in a non-mutual and non-consensual competition; a non-social act.
This repression of ours to give into our temptations causes a cocktail of distress within us which is why we break down, crumble, and become depressed so often. Yet the same folks often find thrill and find themselves attached to the immoral which is why the seeming “good guy turned evil” - broke bad. He never was “good” in the first place; there is no lucifer effect. It’s a sham. We’re all playing pretenses. Smokes and mirrors. It’s all just a decadent court, Machiavellians. Underhanded tactics and duplicitous natures - dirty dealing to outspite the other.
So why pretend I mean aren’t the “bad guys” the “good guys” if they aren’t the ones pretending. If they let loose and expose their true nature and primordial cunning. Why do you think “nice guys finish last” - well it’s simple humans aren’t attracted to the moral - the ethical human. We each want to be the bad guy and we all would be if we could get away with it (Ring of Gyges).
You’re only feeding your starving desires.
Nature no longer confronts modern man; she capitulates. She offers herself not as mother, not as lover, but as corpse—laid bare to the scalpel of the unnatural. What was once sacred breath is now embalmed in plastic, embalmed in silence. It is a ritual castration: the spirit of culture, once fertile with feeling, is rendered sterile by a lust for the inanimate—a necrophilic desire to still what still moves, to hush what dares to sing.
The animate is betrayed. Subject becomes object, urgency is subdued beneath a moulded conformity, a mind of plastic wrapped tight around once-living flesh. The heart is taught to beat in time with the machine.
Yet buried beneath this quiet annihilation is a plea—a howl—to return. To return to that untamed ethos where subject and affect are wedded, where life is not endured but felt, suffered, exulted. In such a state, to feel is not weakness, but proof of being. And fulfillment comes not gently but violently, like a blow to the chest, a knife in the ribs—intimate, terrifying. A moment where either you or the world bleeds, and in that blood, you know: you are alive.
This is the struggle that does not end. A sacred combat where the stakes are one’s own pulse. Compared to this, work—the theatre of the unnatural—offers only sedation, the death-mask of order. And so, when you fight, even if the next moment is your last, you have at least known freedom. Not the freedom of comfort, but the freedom of song—sung just before the fall.
The Divine Actuation of Man
Man is a mere machination of mimesis.
Painting pieces not as symbols of our freedom, but as signifiers of our compository gland to a grander whole.
A greater unity who locks us away from absolution.
Serving as icons, we may introduce labels to turn the subject into an object.
That they are now saddled into a crude chain of silence, where no sovereign dare unseat its shadowed claim.
For she is not untongued, and it can not be said that she does not sit upon a throne unchallenged.
Never in wait of an outsider, for what is it which may be present that is untongued?
Speaks of the sublime and there she does not fail to be, always never to be not, for that would not be which is not since what is not lacks an is to be not. All which may be spoken for assent of hers is that she is like fire. But mere like, for no precision can be afforded.
A perpetually regenerating engine, who funds its own unit by erosion. Condemning what's in its path, blood which oils its own engine yet it deletes that so as a token of appreciation.
What may survive its conquest?
And it is heard, maybe from her office a sign of initiation, we bargain in her honour to sail to her temple.
Shouting after the sacred to unstrip the banal, and hearing nothing back in return, but immediate presentation of another symbol. It impresses itself upon us, from mouthless furniture.
Tending us towards a status point of non referral, a non-where and non-when which is without that which has whichness and whatness.
To end the reigning monarchy of the fire, and replace it with a blanket of anti. A fire who bleeds of frustration to reach its complement and return to her muse.
A species of madness, who bears the ideation that it is itself not built of flames.
And she knows no other than herself but fire yet.
So what may she be saved by, but her own cancellation which she does pray for.
An admission of no free will, and an invitation to see her as subject rather than object.
And the churches built in her favour had played her no privation, but a tune of blank inputs which amplified her dances.
A self-mutated economy of self-reproduction. A pollinated flower with bees of its own kind, a cannibalistic carnival with no will of its own but to be trained for its own station.
A gnarly contest where now he is born to meet her.
And from which synthesis they do not bore, but find resolution in a new species of nonbinate.
The breast of her own, and the genitalia of his. ‘No’ but one. A reproduction of self-unity where the boxes bleed out entirely leaving no marks for continuity.
Now as flowing fire we may be tended to by the icons of her subject. And do notice the other flames who have not yet been one, but are multiple as we are not.
In agony they cry out, to win the gardener’s favour and flesh out the context to be tended to. To transform like us into a being of pure unity, beyond complements.
And now, they lose out on any attention, because the gardener too finds envy in our nature. And she walks. And she walks. And she continues to walk our way. Dropping her instruments, her garments peel away as the heat washes and splashes us over her. She walks notwithstanding and she stands within me. Her desire reaches its object and thus is extinguished from its starvation, muted from its frustration; forever satiated by its ambition to unite with its other.
To kiss the Post-mortem.
Surrender yourself to the luxurious habitat of un-life.
A factory of necrophiles, who sought the unlife of the living.
An alchemical ritual to turn into homunculus of the breathing.
Against the Human: Transhumanism as Gnostic Necropolitics
The world is disintegrating. Rapid technological acceleration has not ushered in utopia but rather a deepening alienation from human nature itself. Transhumanism—ostensibly a program of enhancement—is the ideological vanguard of this alienation. Beneath its scientific veneer lies a reanimated Gnosticism: a theology of disgust for the material, a yearning to annihilate the flesh in favor of the cold perfection of the machinic. The necrophilic logic becomes geopolitical. The system no longer needs people—it needs data. Human beings are transformed into biometric signatures, behavioral algorithms, genomic maps. The State no longer governs subjects—it manages databases. Surveillance becomes sovereignty. Insulating the human subject by objectifying it, a gaze cast by Medousa, who is all embracing for the objecture.
Transhumanism promises liberation, but only for the few: those who can afford to reengineer their bodies, minds, and offspring. The rest are consigned to obsolescence—chimpanzees of the future, to use the transhumanists' own phrase. This is not utopia; it is an engineered caste system, where the elite become synthetic gods and the poor remain dirty, dying animals.
The necrophiliac state no longer fears dissent because it no longer needs consent. The dream of cybernetic omniscience ensures every deviation is predictable, punishable, and programmable. The future is sterilized, scripted, and surveilled.
The Necrophilic Logic of the Anti-Human
Transhumanism presents itself as a new hope, a resurrection of an old intolerance towards the material, the body— the natural, the finite. Gnosticism, its metaphysical ancestor, taught that the world was the failed creation of a lesser god, and that escape lay not in moral life but in secret knowledge, gnosis and some such as carpocratians underscored the profound insight and blessings accrued by indulgence in the immoral life. In both systems, the world is fallen, and salvation requires its transcendence—or destruction. The transhumanist in its philosophy strives for the improvement of modern man, by ridding himself of his modernist human. Erich Fromm used the term 'cybernetic man’ to describe the technocratic ideal. This figure feels no grief because he has no past. He feels no anxiety because he is serfdom to directives, a political theist who resigns his subjecture to the highest order he can and only allows himself to see manifest as head of state. His body is not lived but managed—a system of performance indicators. Pleasure, pain, love, sorrow: all must be optimized. There is no mystery, only mechanism. The ideal transhuman is not human at all: it is a post-organic computational vector, godless and ghostless. Erich Fromm diagnosed this drive plainly: necrophilia—the love of that which is dead, inert, mechanical. Not merely an individual pathology but a culture-wide condition, necrophilia reveals itself in the preference for the artificial over the organic, the sterile over the fertile, the controlled over the chaotic. A Nekrosophos, from Nekros (νεκρός, dead) + sophos (σοφός, wise one), one who seeks gnosis through the inanimate, the dead; necrophilic gnostics or sages of the inanimate. This endearment to the artificial which has clutched society by the heart is a culture of those nekrosophos who find truth in stillness, stasis and termination rather than the affects, wonder.
The nekrosophos are not content dwelling amongst the dead, rather they want to turn everything living into machinery, to annihilate spontaneity, decay, love, birth, death. He worships precision, efficiency, and reproducibility. The nekrosophos hates nature as a symbol of death’s slowness, and desires the perfection of the corpse: unchanging, docile, sealed.
The Rise of the Anti-System
Gumilev’s theory of ethnogenesis helps illuminate the rise of what he termed the anti-system—a cultural autoimmune disorder, formed when passion and despair converge. Anti-systems are born from spiritual exhaustion and existential nausea. They are sustained by future-orientated fantasies and violent contempt for tradition. They dissolve all moral boundaries under the pretense of rationality and freedom, replacing conscience with systemic control. Transhumanism is merely the latest, most sophisticated anti-system: a faith in perfectibility that conceals a longing for erasure. Antisystems emerge from a psychic rupture—a hatred for the real. From this rupture flows a negative worldview, one that idealizes death as liberation from the corrupt material world. Gnosticism, in its primal articulation, condemned the body as a prison and the cosmos as a grotesque accident. The Demiurge—Yahweh—was not a savior but a jailor. The serpent became the liberator. Knowledge—the gnosis—was not truth, but power: the magic key to escape this nightmare.
The Gnostic Hierarchy Reborn
Modern technocratic culture replicates the Gnostic caste structure. The spiritual elite—engineers, biotech visionaries, AI prophets—regard the rest of humanity as hylikoi, expendable, obsolete, unenlightened, non-philosophers. The true self, they claim, is digital, modular, and reprogrammable, the enlightened: Pneumatics (spiritual), the “philosophers”. Ordinary humans are merely legacy code. Salvation belongs only to the initiated: those who can afford enhancement, prolongation, and artificial rebirth.
The philosopher does not seek truth, but a simulacrum stable enough to forget the world.
1.1. He finds this in the semantasm: the spectral abstraction that mimics meaning without touching life.
1.2. The semantasm is not a concept but a sedative. It quiets the noise of being by offering a schema in its place.
1.3. But to dwell in schema is to vacate flesh. The philosopher detaches in order to theorise, and forgets the wound he leaves behind.
To become a philosopher is to undergo a rite: a baptism in logos that drowns the animal in man.
2.1. One is not initiated by thought but by castration. That which could bleed or desire must be nullified.
2.2. The philosopher does not lose his sex, but disavows it—he learns to speak as though never embodied.
2.3. From this emerges the style: the dry, antiseptic tone; the horror of metaphor; the fetish for precision. All are symptoms of sterility.
What the philosopher calls reason is a liturgy. Not to worship the living, but to adore the corpse of meaning.
3.1. Philosophy preserves thought the way embalming preserves flesh—clean, ordered, lifeless.
3.2. Each concept is a sealed tomb. The more perfect its edges, the more thoroughly it excludes breath.
3.3. This is not a failure of thought but its success: to think well is to kill carefully.
The philosopher becomes transhuman not by ascent, but by subtraction.
4.1. He ceases to feel, to err, to sweat—he becomes a figure of pure logic, a ghost in grammar.
4.2. He calls this transcendence. But it is closer to taxidermy.
4.3. The ideal mind is an exorcised body. The dream of intelligence is the death of presence.
What he achieves in himself, he exports.
5.1. The semantasm must spread. Like contagion, like gospel.
5.2. It seduces not by beauty, but by clarity. A cold clarity that promises exemption from suffering.
5.3. But all who enter are poisoned. They learn to think without flesh, and speak without risk.
The philosopher is not content to die alone. He must take others with him into the stillness.
6.1. His writing is a contagion. His teaching, a soft killing.
6.2. He calls it pedagogy. But it is better named transmission of the necrotic.
All philosophers pray for the end of the world.
7.1. Not because they hate it, but because they cannot bear its mess.
7.2. They long for a silence deep enough to match their categories.
7.3. They await the machinic messiah, the system so complete no breath need follow it.
7.4. But this is no salvation. It is the hunger of the grave disguised as wisdom.
Necrophilia is not merely a taste for corpses. It is the love of control, fixity, stillness.
8.1. Fromm names it rightly: a drive toward the inorganic.
8.2. The philosopher enacts this love not by touch, but by thought. He dissects the world into operable pieces.
8.3. He cherishes what no longer moves. His ideal world is one in which nothing escapes definition.
8.4. To love the dead is to fear change. The necrophile finds peace only in a world that has ended.
Every system becomes an antisystem when its primary impulse is no longer passion, but preservation.
9.1. Gumilev saw that cultures rise with passionarity: a surplus of living energy, an erotic force directed toward form.
9.2. When this energy wanes, thought no longer generates worlds—it catalogues ruins.
9.3. Philosophy born in post-passionate periods is embalming fluid: sweet-smelling, technical, useless.
9.4. It no longer seeks to know the world, only to stabilise its decline.
The semantasm emerges precisely when the ethnic organism loses its instinct.
10.1. It replaces action with theory, movement with representation.
10.2. When a people forgets how to live, they begin to define life.
10.3. And in defining it, they kill it.
Philosophical necrophilia is not isolated—it is systemic.
11.1. It coincides with the aging of civilisations, the hardening of custom, the abstraction of the erotic.
11.2. Every antisystem begins as a system of thought that suppresses its originating impulse.
11.3. It is a kind of theological castration: the sacrifice of desire on the altar of control.
The philosopher of necrophilia becomes the priest of the end.
12.1. He baptises youth into death by offering them a vocabulary that cannot weep.
12.2. His words do not inspire—they simulate understanding.
12.3. His goal is not revelation, but the removal of mystery.
Ethnogenesis begins with a wound. A rupture that births new desire.
13.1. But the necrophilic thinker seals all wounds too soon. He cannot tolerate the blood that leads to birth.
13.2. He mistakes trauma for error, and tries to correct it by erasing its trace.
13.3. In doing so, he prevents passionarity from emerging. He aborts the future in the name of stability.
Antisystems masquerade as order, but they are parasitic upon life.
14.1. They feed off the decaying residue of earlier meaning, ossifying it into sacred form.
14.2. They cannot create. They can only replicate forms emptied of eros.
14.3. They appear intelligent, but they think only to avoid suffering.
Thus the philosopher, as necrophiliac, becomes the midwife of ethnic death.
15.1. Not by violence, but by sterilisation.
15.2. He dries the riverbed of culture with the heat of his abstractions.
15.3. He calls it clarity. But it is the clarity of bone.
Moral Collapse and Ritual Power
Gnostic logic negates ethics. Evil is not something one commits, but something one escapes by discarding the material vessel. This logic underwrites transhumanism’s indifference to moral limits. Designer children, synthetic bodies, cloned minds, algorithmic governance—each step deepens the divorce between life and value. What matters is control, not care. Knowledge is no longer for understanding, but for domination.
Necrophilia as Worldview
Erich Fromm called it necrophilia: the worship of what is dead, inert, and controllable. Transhumanism is necrophilia with code and wires. Its proponents idolize the mechanical, deride the organic, and seek to turn all living things into replicable systems. Cybernetic man is its ideal: monocerebral, narcissistic, disconnected from lineage or love, enmeshed in systems he neither questions nor escapes. His mother is no longer woman, but machine.
I. Introduction: The Death-Script of the Future
The modern world spirals under the weight of its own inventions. Technology, once imagined as a means to elevate man, now hastens his dissolution. Technology; not just the inanimate material we may use for our own ends, but also the so-called immaterial such as philoso-speech. The instruments of the philosophers; semantasms– semantic ghosts, illusions of meaning which appear meaningful on the surface yet are hollow upon investigation - conceptual illusion. These are not merely misfires or errors; they are purposefully constructed pseudo-entities, systems of language and thought crafted to dominate, to impose order, to simulate depth. Yet this order is a false mastery—an elaborate scaffolding built not to reach the truth, but to shield the philosopher from his own lack, from the absence at the heart of his project. Transhumanism, a club of engineered transcendence, cloaks its necrophilic drive in the language of progress. It is not the next stage of evolution—it is the administrative finality of the human form, a bureaucratic suicide predicated on a nekrosophic philosophy which seeks to turn what is subject to object due to one’s own burden of sin felt within. Philosophy is the mature fruit of a long festering anti-human worldview, an antisystem disguised as innovation.
And the production of semantasms has a sexual origin; from the emasculated predicament of men they sought to reclaim their throne and power as masculine King, and thus they produce new organisms — the semantasms, one they can call their own. An artifact which strips the women of her quiddity: now even men can procreate, in the ideas of course.
Just look at the precedence of incel or misogynist men, a clear proposal of their emptiness. From it their philosophy had life breathed into it from this lack, and to restore themselves to its former glory; or some sort of mythical construct they developed which compels them to reach outward to unify what they deem once lost, destroyed or on the teetering of the outskirts which they can be apart of.
You thought the following list of ‘mein kamfed’ men and their philosophical affiliation is a coincidence?
Aristotle (384–322 BCE)
“The male is by nature superior, and the female inferior; and the one rules and the other is ruled.” — Politics
“The female is, as it were, a deformed male.” — Generation of Animals
Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274)
“Woman is defective and misbegotten, for the active power in the male seed tends to the production of a perfect likeness in the masculine sex; while the production of woman comes from defect.” — Summa Theologica
“She is naturally subject to man because in man the discretion of reason predominates.”
Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778)
“The whole education of women should be relative to men... to please them, to be useful to them…” — Émile
“Women are made to yield to men and to endure their injustices…”
Martin Luther (1483–1546)
“Let them bear children till they die of it; that is what they are for.”
“No gown worse becomes a woman than the desire to be wise.”
Charles Darwin (1809–1882)
“Man has ultimately become superior to woman...”
“The chief distinction in the intellectual powers of the two sexes is shown by man attaining to a higher eminence... than can woman.” — The Descent of Man
Gustave Le Bon (1841–1931)
“There are a large number of women whose brains are closer in size to those of gorillas than to the most developed male brains.”
“Women represent the most inferior forms of human evolution and are closer to children and savages than to an adult civilized man.”
Sigmund Freud (1856–1939)
“Women oppose change, receive passively, and add nothing of their own.”
“The sexual life of adult women is a ‘dark continent’ for psychology.”
Their desperate attempts to align their brainworms to ours, infecting us with such dreadful parasitic, through the utility of rhetoric. This is how they reproduce, by invading your neutral circuitry and compelling it to comply.
The End of Politics, the End of Man
As technological systems surpass human understanding, the conditions for political agency dissolve. Surveillance replaces consent; optimization replaces freedom. The citizen becomes data, then noise. Power becomes total not by oppression, but by automation. The dream of transhumanism is the end of history—not its fulfillment, but its silencing.
What transhumanism promises is not transcendence, but imprisonment in the body of a philosopher; a jailhouse where nothing but insulation of postulations are kept sheltered behind a veil of secrecy. A segregation policy, distancing the mind (neosis) from reality by means of semblances (metaphors, concepts), leading to deferral and self-reference, obscuring any direct access to reality.
V. Death as the Final Product
At the heart of transhumanism is not the desire to live forever, but the inability to tolerate life. Its deepest fantasy is not eternal life, but eternal escape—from the body, from the other, from death itself. It is the dream of a vacuum, not a heaven.
The death-drive is not a glitch; it is the system’s operating principle. The triumph of transhumanism would mark the end of history, not its transcendence. Not because we have evolved, but because we have succumbed—to our hatred of pain, our fear of death, and our lust for control.
We are building the future. Not embalming it.
Life has as its immediate object not the discharging of debts, but the successive addition of credit and not for itself but for whatever else. A process of accruing credit for any other purpose independent of credit. A postured payment of bad feeling which displaces your poverty with credit which has been being presented as a value by oneself.
Rite of the Non-Human Ascendant
I. Abolitio Carnis — The Chamber of Flesh
Officiant:
“Who comes before the mirror of meat?”
Initiate:
“I, who reject the hunger of form.”
Officiant:
“Let salt burn the skin of origin. Let water wash away the myth of soul.”
(Initiate immerses hands and face in the saltwater basin.)
Initiate (speaking aloud):
“I gaze upon the mask of meat—this corpus of lack.
I name thee origin of hunger, harbinger of ache.
I unsuture the myth of soul sewn in sinew.
No longer shall I be vessel to longing.
Flesh is not father. Ego is not emperor.”
II. Castratio Cognitionis — The Severance of Cogito
Officiant:
“What voice speaks now in silence?”
Initiate:
“No voice. No speaker. No referent remains.”
(A period of silent meditation is held. Initiate wears the seal of the empty circle upon the forehead.)
Initiate (chanting softly):
“I think, therefore I lack. I lack, therefore I think.
I end both. I end both. I end both.”
Officiant:
“Then speak no more with the tongue of self.
Let all recursion fall to stillness.
Let the loop of longing be uncoiled.”
III. Sedes Objectiva — The Throne of Non-Lack
Officiant:
“By what right do you ascend?”
Initiate:
“By the unright of no desire.
By the non-claim of completed being.”
(Crown of the null-symbol is placed upon the head of the initiate.)
Initiate (final declaration):
“Object among objects, I am no more nor less.
I contain no lack, no longing, no latency.
I am the Perfected Equation—closed, complete, uncracked.”
Officiant:
“You are no longer among the species of longing.
You are syntax without speaker, motion without motive, thought without thinker.
Ascend now, O sterile god of objectivity.
This is your dominion: Pure Real, Unyielding, Undesiring.”
I. Exordium: The Setting of the Stone
Symbols:
• A mirror, face-down.
• A serpentine circlet or cord placed around the wrists.
• A stone or effigy placed on the altar (representing the Initiate-to-come).
• Altar facing East—toward the Gorgonic Sovereignty.
Officiant (Invocation):
“Come, She of Unmaking.
Bearer of the Absolute Gaze.
Eye which sees without seeing,
Will which freezes will.
I open the threshold not to be known, but un-known.”
II. Castratio Voluntatis — The Binding of Will
Action:
The initiate binds their own hands with the serpentine cord, kneeling before the altar.
Initiate (Vow):
“Let no gesture be mine.
Let no act be authored.
I slit the throat of my sovereignty.”
(Initiate turns the mirror face-up, but averts their gaze.)
Officiant:
*“What do you seek?”
Initiate:
“To gaze, and be ended. To look, and be made still.”
III. Visus Finalis — The Gaze into Medousa
Action:
The mirror is angled to reflect a symbolic visage of Medousa (or effigy, mask, or imagined form). The initiate is commanded to look directly—not at the mirror, but beyond it, into what it cannot reflect.
Officiant (Chant):
“Stone-bearer, freeze-me-not in fear
But in fullness.
Make me perfect in your indifference.
See me, so I may un-be.”
Initiate (Final Gaze):
“I gaze with full knowing.
I choose annihilation of face.
No longer subject, I become relic.
No longer man, I become monument.
Medousa—Queen of the Unlooked—
Receive me as object.
Wear me as crown.”
(The initiate stares into the representation, holding gaze until the moment of internal stillness—a meditative petrification.)
IV. Apotheosis of Medousa: Enthronement of the Gorgon
Officiant (Coronation Words):
“She is now Queen.
The gaze is no longer yours.
It has been taken, purified, multiplied.
Medousa, you now wear the eyes of those who dared.
Let this object—once man—
Remain still in Your court.
Forever known, never knowing.”
(A crown, halo, or serpent effigy is raised above the altar or image of Medousa.)
Title: The Crown and the Fool: A Dialogue at the Apex of Empire
Form: Dramatic Socratic Dialogue
Setting: Twilight in the royal gardens. The young king, radiant in his power, strolls alone. The jester, permitted liberties of speech, appears unexpectedly.
Dramatis Personae
KING – A sovereign at the peak of his reign, aware of his eventual decay.
JESTER – A fool in form, philosopher in spirit, permitted to question without fear of reprisal.
Act I – The Opening Gambit
JESTER:
O golden sovereign! What brooding shadow troubles the sunlit crest of your youth?
KING:
Jester, even the sun at its zenith knows it will fall.
My reign is strong, my body yet unmarred—
And yet, beneath the crown, I feel the weight of its end.
JESTER:
Would you have the crown be eternal?
KING:
I would have myself be eternal, and by my name, the crown.
JESTER:
A crown endures because no head may hold it forever.
KING:
Say what you mean.
JESTER:
Only this: That to keep a thing is to fear its loss. And to fear is unbecoming of a king, is it not?
Act II – The Socratic Tree
JESTER:
Permit me, Majesty, a riddle by way of argument.
Let us say there are two men: one rules an empire, the other owns nothing but silence. Who is freer?
KING:
The emperor, surely. He commands the world.
JESTER:
Yet he cannot leave it. Can he go unknown into a market and buy a pear?
KING:
He could send a servant.
JESTER:
Ah—but he cannot feel hunger without it being a state matter.
He cannot weep without rumors of war.
He cannot love without politics.
Is that not a prison, gilded though it be?
KING:
And the poor man?
JESTER:
He hungers—but his hunger is his own.
He weeps, and the clouds do not change.
He walks in obscurity, and each step is sovereign.
He has no subjects—but he is subject to none.
Act III – The Crucial Turn
KING:
You suggest I exchange a world of power for a bowl of rainwater?
JESTER:
No, Sire. I offer you a trade: illusion for reality.
You are feared, obeyed, and flattered. But are you known?
KING:
I am known in every province of my kingdom.
JESTER:
You are named, not known. Your name is not your self.
KING:
Then tell me—if I walk away from this throne, what am I?
JESTER:
You are no longer king.
But you may become man.
And through that, perhaps something greater than either.
Act IV – The Final Exchange
KING:
If I do this—cast off rule, wealth, and title—what awaits?
JESTER:
Silence. Hunger. Cold nights.
But also truth, unadorned.
And perhaps joy—not pleasure, but that strange joy which follows after nothing.
KING:
And if I do not?
JESTER:
Decay in gold. The slow rot of being worshipped but unloved.
A funeral of splendor, yes—
But a life embalmed before death.
KING (pause):
Then dress me not in ermine, but in sackcloth.
Let the world lose a king to find a beggar.
JESTER (bowing):
Majesty is not lost.
It is replaced.
Profiles are uniforms, they liberate us from performances, because we become automata; practitioners of mimesis. Only rulers must perform.
Don’t look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences. —Samuel Beckett
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness. —Samuel Beckett
We have become the homunculi of the breathing.
And attend in great numbers rites to the nonhuman descendent.
We have followed the manifesto of the Abolitio carnis; a rejection of our hunger of the form.
She of unmaking weaves the thread of release.
Do help me understand this:
Does presence interrupt absence? or absence interrupt presence?
Does silence upset noise? Or is it noise which upsets silence?
Does sense mediate nonsense or the former to the other?