"Am I really all the things that are outside of me?"
—Animal Collective
Dignity in words ironically is not
as dignified an ideal however an ideal is what it will remain and should
remain. It is strange that for how futile it is to do there is not much in it.
It seems to me to be an imaginative deluding. A prank.
Words are little boxes. What is it
in them to which the speaker could relate her terrible greatness? Perhaps
dignity itself is a pretense however I like to think that there is something
outstanding about the human race. It won’t be expressed and that is why it is
outstanding; it won’t ever be expressed. So then it is the only certainty I
know of when I think of how much things fucking change.
It is the only constant and it is
the only thing that cannot exist. I haven’t read a lot of Nietzsche but I know
a few things and when the man said that “god is dead, god remains dead,” I
thought to myself that that statement mostly was important for what it
suggests.
If god is dead then whatever it
was, at the least, once was, and so then once was not dead.
How after all might something die
if it did not once live? This is how I view the limits of words and this is how
I recognize their concrete efforts to explain as quite ignoble. We are riding
on the wake of a nonexistence or rather a nonsense so potent that it to this day
plagues others upon hearing any sure statement made by someone else with a sense
that that assurance is somewhat laughable, at least if one bothers to look
deeper into the idea of words—language—as an approximate detailing of a world
itself there approximately.
The only difference between the
reality of expression and just reality is that expression is and can only be
inaccurate and yet it attempts at clarity because at times we all have had
clear heads and have felt transcendent things. Whereas reality by its nature—at
least, to one who has had the pleasure of losing control and all sense of
reason—is a thing that is palpably not what it is and which never possessed
such a fantastical clarity as a mind might have in the moment indicated as truth.
But inaccurately expressing an
inaccurate reality is not like fighting fire with fire and most importantly my
perception and how I relate that perception to others—translate it—is not a
mirror to represent that ever-pale, ever-tired countenance looking back—that
penumbra—that inaccurate perspective.
Rather because expression itself stems
from a source or absolute reality that is and must be questionable—obviously—what
is wrought, viciously, from this void, is a thing that should by all accounts
be itself slightly questionable.
Again, though, just because a
person’s view of reality is equally as tenuous as reality itself—well—this does
not mean that in their shared lack of a core definition they are the same and
if so would not be discernable from one another. If what I saw was what I saw I
would be what I saw and any ego or sense of self would dissipate immediately.
In order for one to know thyself, it must happen that there is a difference
between their—own internal and external world.
The only thing, as I said, that is
constant, is the lack of god, of an absolute; this void, truly, is our guiding
light because it is eternal and is the only thing that really is what it is.
Absence instigates need, thus, my
reactions to reality might change though what stirred them in my own conscious
mind is forever the same. In other words, nothingness is god, god is nothing,
god does not exist because nonexistence is the only absolute and, moreover, to
speak bluntly, is the only thing I can think of that is both accurate and variable,
static and dynamic, because how, quite literally, everything, every goddamn
thing, reacts to this eternal void—which, to say it again, will always be a
different reaction, untrustworthy, tenuous, and most of all liable to change—is
as important a part of the void as the void itself. And this system, this absurd
system, sadly, is no joke, and is of course no greatness.
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