A Faustian Revelation
I look upon the world that we have been given and I feel a sense of profound, overwhelming, and disgusting fear.
My fear is profound in the scope of its worry and the implications of its mere existence. The horrors visited upon the multitude, the absence of responsibility, the speed at which blame is assigned and aid is forfended- these are the roots of my fear and have long nursed it in the dark hours of the night. When time seems longest and the creeping shadows reign in the silence, I have found the simple complacency of my waking life strangely... unsatisfactory. The willingness with which we submit to our fell masters and the eagerness we display to sate their unnatural appetites... These come back to rob me of my rest and keep my eyes open, staring at the darkness as if it were an ebony mute, standing in judgement of me and my generation. And under those withering eyes, within the silence so encompassing and so violent and so PROFOUND, I begin to fear. As sleep is denied me, I begin to awaken to the life I- and a million million before me- have been leading. And thus, fear is born.
My fear is overwhelming in its universality, incomprehensability, and its paralyzing touch. For, if we awaken to the life that we live, if we really begin to understand how we have systematically made ourselves the handmaidens of ideas far worse than any fevered dream of the most reprehensible sociopath, if we become aware of the chains of words that we have been enslaved in and wish to enslave future generations in- without end- then what can we do? At what point in history did the process begin? Did we condemn ourselves to this abyssal future with some misstep or with some covertly harbored sin? Did anger begin our history of violence, or was it love? And if we- we who live as mere slaves to those emotions that bubble within us as some blood-stained geyser in the deepest recesses of the earth- if this great multitude of filth and wretchedness becomes cognizent to the victims we have made and the crimson stains on our own fingertips... how can we do anything but weep? And thus, fear is ripened.
My fear is disgusting for reasons which should be abundently clear to you by now. I am disgusted by our ancestors who compromised and sacrificed and victimized. I am disgusted by those who exploit the Tragedy called "Man" to their own ends, blind to the chains that enslave their own lives. And I am disgusted by we wretched men, who labor in anonymity and who live without meaning. Every man who dies without a curse upon his lips for the infectious evil that has consumed our souls, dies a coward and a traitor. A traitor to no political agenda or nation or race- but to the race of Men who began with the simplest of thoughts: "I am." And this, my friends, is the grim harvest of that pestilential fruit.
And allow me to be perfectly clear in this, my explication to those among you who have learned to fear as I have: I am.
And I am no traitor.
My fear is profound in the scope of its worry and the implications of its mere existence. The horrors visited upon the multitude, the absence of responsibility, the speed at which blame is assigned and aid is forfended- these are the roots of my fear and have long nursed it in the dark hours of the night. When time seems longest and the creeping shadows reign in the silence, I have found the simple complacency of my waking life strangely... unsatisfactory. The willingness with which we submit to our fell masters and the eagerness we display to sate their unnatural appetites... These come back to rob me of my rest and keep my eyes open, staring at the darkness as if it were an ebony mute, standing in judgement of me and my generation. And under those withering eyes, within the silence so encompassing and so violent and so PROFOUND, I begin to fear. As sleep is denied me, I begin to awaken to the life I- and a million million before me- have been leading. And thus, fear is born.
My fear is overwhelming in its universality, incomprehensability, and its paralyzing touch. For, if we awaken to the life that we live, if we really begin to understand how we have systematically made ourselves the handmaidens of ideas far worse than any fevered dream of the most reprehensible sociopath, if we become aware of the chains of words that we have been enslaved in and wish to enslave future generations in- without end- then what can we do? At what point in history did the process begin? Did we condemn ourselves to this abyssal future with some misstep or with some covertly harbored sin? Did anger begin our history of violence, or was it love? And if we- we who live as mere slaves to those emotions that bubble within us as some blood-stained geyser in the deepest recesses of the earth- if this great multitude of filth and wretchedness becomes cognizent to the victims we have made and the crimson stains on our own fingertips... how can we do anything but weep? And thus, fear is ripened.
My fear is disgusting for reasons which should be abundently clear to you by now. I am disgusted by our ancestors who compromised and sacrificed and victimized. I am disgusted by those who exploit the Tragedy called "Man" to their own ends, blind to the chains that enslave their own lives. And I am disgusted by we wretched men, who labor in anonymity and who live without meaning. Every man who dies without a curse upon his lips for the infectious evil that has consumed our souls, dies a coward and a traitor. A traitor to no political agenda or nation or race- but to the race of Men who began with the simplest of thoughts: "I am." And this, my friends, is the grim harvest of that pestilential fruit.
And allow me to be perfectly clear in this, my explication to those among you who have learned to fear as I have: I am.
And I am no traitor.
posted by Jonc0re at
9:50 PM
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