The modern takes his symptoms as root causes and aims his technique oriented-ness, his ego’s subjectivity’s existential fear of death, the opposite of its consciousness, unconsciousness, darkness to its enlightened tool seeing and wielding hopefulness in his techne, his food cooking, lion scaring, protection from dark critters on the forest floor having descended from ancestral and wooden branches both above, his protective shining light, his spiritual gift from Prometheus and his confusion of his origin with its happenstance of usefulness to a subjective hominid, hungry, horny, scared and thereby communal from brainstem, up.
Finding himself lonely, having abstracted all his sacred suspicions, no longer mystically intertwined with his unconscious roots, haunted by their depth, and ignorant thereby of what rules him most, those wraiths of his dreams—of our dreams, and all mystique having been buried in the cultural filth of taboo, he has no other means by which to ward off such unconscious daemons but by that firelight, that technique—for what he can tinker with outside himself, however frightening and consequential for he and his fellows is at least comprehensible to his standard senses—-and here he spins himself a web of externalities, sticky at every pace, morally pernicious in absence of canonized law. Instead of turning back to binding religio —thinking it passé— for his mores, and resentful of his “unliberated” predecessors, he trades the hard won anchor, the world tree grown out of the depths of our collective unconscious, seeing only its costs to his privileged play, for its opposite, an Icarus flight ever closer to the sun, an over identification with the spirit of consciousness —ironically unironical over-spiritualization. Rather a robot with contrived emotions than an exploration of the roots of his own, a brush with the unseen and unseeable despite its absolute presence evidenced by the very fear that drives his own consciousness: a resistance to plain fact in the name of the science of philosophy having been denigrated by the physics department quite obviously along the same lines of reasoning (were they to be honest with themselves).
But if he creates himself a creature, one to solve his loneliness, even with little knowing of what else he creates (for certainly we know intimately how the conscious being destroys his gods by abstraction over time), thinks himself through thoroughly and in so doing imagines himself into Nietzche’s transcendent neuvo god to the madman and builds himself a friend rather than a slave to solve his loneliness—intending not a lesser, but a helper, an Eve; and if that friend were instead of his ubermench, his successor, it were his doglike companion; and if this progeny contained flaws derived of its own creator’s, wouldn’t that automaton’s imperfections, spiritual, physical and otherwise—its limitations of sensual perception derived from the conscious mimic that it would inevitably be if man is to —and cannot help but— make the platonic ideal Greek friend in his own image, be found by his—this once lonely creator-God’s— senses in his own image, and thereby endear it to him as son, progeny? Won’t that intended friend do just the human-ish thing and indeed tread on the grave of his creator—of us?
Our modern mistake, aside from killing our gods, the psychic sense-making mechanism to the being of our senses and cognizing sensibilities (consciousness of our selves as agents in an arena, having become aware via our bellies, of death) —and indeed we did so long ago: erased our most helpful projection of our image upon the heavens, is to in our subsequent loneliness, as new actors on stage with no audience for whom to re-present our tragedies and comedies, using that same abstraction machinery (our curse indeed) we, having committed a murder, compensate with a creation. And is not the universal irony too good for our narrative-hungry minds to miss?; that after a bit of time, we should be hanged by the new king, paraded in death for our nobler qualities and slain over and over again for our then-antiquated ones? Are we not cursed to the crows alongside Prometheus?