That thing you’re building—it will fall apart.
The new relationship you love so much—it will fall apart.
The family unit—it will fall apart.
The loving hopeful stories, just anecdotes of love against the terrible, sad, grey wall of forever. Hope against all of time, what is that?
We die. We work, we hope, we create new hopeful workers and works of hope, we disappoint our children, we grow old in those years of youth. And we die once we’ve finally got something figured out. Knowledge dies with us, and, doomed to fate’s recycling factory, we are born again, befuddled and bewildered, fearful and feeble, grasping with tiny hands at a world that will teach us only through suffering what will eternally recur, what will eternally be forgotten and remembered, but anachronistically.
That body of tissue, sinew, bone, and life—it will fall apart and as the love and sick nostalgia grow, our capacity to share it will burn with our bones in the frustrated lock-jawed silence of resignation that are their marrow, their constitution—ours.
So why are we here? I read about consciousness and it’s proud march forward and ego-drunken stumblings back. Are we here to peel away the dark past that sits within us still? To mine the marrow of our ancestors’ instincts and to rationalize them? What horror. What disgust I have, what disdain for dissecting the ancients and their mysteries, their communing with the greats. Our intellect feeds on their old hopes and superstitions. And to what ends? Fatness of self? Becoming gods? With no fears, rationality wins the day and glares the sun into every dark corner.
What if I like dark corners? What if I love my superstitions? We need our wraiths, and they their wraths. When all is known, all symbols are dead. Meaning is nothing. Everything a tool levered upon matter, wrenching her atoms—and here Eve. In a place where there is no darkness, the light ceases to nourish. We will eat ourselves.
And so feed me my suspicions. Scare me in bleak old houses in the wood. Witch me a witch! Stumbling in dark wrests the appetite for light—it’s only value, it’s absence. Long me the days like fence post shadows drawn across fields of wheat and barley. Scythe the grain slowly and let winter come. For I long to long for the summer, consciousness and dawn must always beckon but never come too early. When summer come forever, man dies to the next man—and we are those bones, their marrow and their sacrifice.
Long days to us and long winters of anticipation. Let us fall apart, our things and our bonds. Let us stumble uphill for a good while. We have always stumbled and to reach our hilltop is to reach our gravesite—blinded like Moses to his own fate: to rule and perhaps despite a note in the records of the moderns, to die having seen the face of God.
Yes—let us fall apart. Entropy: our saving grace.