|Agonia.Net | Policy | Mission||Contact | Participate|
|Article Communities Contest Essay Multimedia Personals Poetry Press Prose _QUOTE Screenplay Special|
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It is my inexorable abandonment to the world of praxis that has brought me at the end of a full circle of life. Leaping into the abyss of the material seemed, once, eternal and resolute. It felt like a fall towards the stars, rather than an embrace of the telluric. Alone, without fear, without the conscience of remorse, I pursued the journey of knowledge in a manner fundamentally different from the ancient rituals. Whereas my intellectual predecessors chose to fall within themselves in order to extract the seeds of existence, I chose to love profoundly, I lived intensely and without dogma, I refused the divine and exalted Man â€“ in its myriad of expressions, from the miserable to the sublime.
I chose to become a stranger among my peers, vacuous automatons caught in the stifling trap of the habitual; an exile among the abominations of the modern age â€“ homo commoditas, whose intelligence is reduced to the maintenance of its primal needs and behaviors, whose thirst for social acceptance creates a pressure to conform that is stronger than the dictates of a totalitarian regime. I journeyed across the battlefields of capitalism, and dedicated victory columns of living carcasses to its glory, using inert souls as mortar and razor-sharp will as tools. I reveled in the consequences of my ambition and felt the toxic wonder of the man who has altered the flow of history.
It is not the pursuit of a higher morality, nor the mutating addiction of power, that has motivated me to commit to the inevitable acts of sacrifice that accompanied the march of the past four years. The tune of the war drums that still ring in my ears was synchronized to a barely audible internal rhythm. This is the melody of the fundus anima, that prosaic realm of purity and innocence in the innermost part of the humanâ€™s soul where divine lies dormant, as the heretic theologians had prescribed. This faint succession of notes flows directly into the celestial symphony of existence, which one can only hear in moments of revelation or transcendence.
And yet this inner rhythm has the cadence of life and those who listen to its gentle reverberations find the inspiration and ardor necessary for any quest of human experience, an infinite array of evolving possibilities constantly molding our history, culture or knowledge. It is irrelevant whether these voyages of transformation reach their final destination, for the truth is strewn along the path as molecular, inter-locking components. Each element, once detected, attaches itself naturally to the partial truth of the material world.
The philosophers have long warned against the impossibility of assembling the perfect forms within the material sphere of existence, and yet there is a glimmer of promise that a narrative that is sufficiently long, strenuous and fortunate can deliver a complete blueprint of perfection, a schematic representation of the absolute truth. This logic has served as the tacit engine of my pursuit and brought me to this precipice. I dare say I found truth, love, misery â€“ the full ethos of human existence, that vulgar, beautiful, pulsating undulation of matter which paints this realm in vivid, unbearable colors. Some have seemed absolute forms, only to reveal additional layers of meaning.
In the process I have lost the control of time, which now flows as a primordial flood around me; I have lost my adolescent pathos, the sensibility of the poet and the insatiable aspiration towards the attainment of knowledge; I have lost my veneration of the gods, and the modest arrogance of the mystic, to which uncharted spiritual waters always seem pacific; I have lost a deep sense of connection to the natural world, exhausting it in the burn of the ravenous senses; I have lost love, in its unadulterated, life-giving form.
I remain myself, frozen in the sea of experience stored in my memory, staid in my negation of absolutes, rooted in the dry materialism of our lives.
De omnibus dubitandum.
|Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests.|
Reproduction of any materials without our permission is strictly prohibited.
Copyright 1999-2003. Agonia.Net
E-mail | Privacy and publication policy