Aberrations of the Impossible
“Man must vanquish himself…” – E.M. Cioran
At first it had been a comfort discovering that others shared one’s secret desires, that one’s transgressions were nothing more than the derivative embellishments of the human condition, a slight swerve or deviation from the strange and bizarre aberrations of the impossible. Nothing special. Such were the days of innocence when one still believed that one’s inner experience was sacrosanct, a temple of thought and emotion where one could discover the most arcane and revolting truths. Then came the realization that one shared too much with the others: one wanted something unique, something that was not shared by those ruinous tribes of the human; something hidden and away, forbidden. One sought above all for darker desecrations, inroads into those strange relations no one else had ever experienced or could experience. One sought above all an absolute experience, one without qualification or precedent.
Absolute Evil without equal or repetition, a singular thought that would isolate one from the others, make of one a dark and impenetrable system of non-knowledge where even solipsism begins to twitch and quiver under the darker reaches of some forgotten memory of thought, a thought without-the-human, a blind thought of the absolute indifference of things and nothingness… a thought emptied of its content – a parodic thought lost within the burnt out dust bins of dead stars, their broken vessels and fateful furnaces of ash and frozen tears strewn across the wastelands of decaying galaxies among the forgotten ruins of Time.
One sought out in the broken contours of madness – exiled thoughts and the aberrations of emotive calibrations, a dimension of mind and feeling that had yet to be exposed to the ruins of time: – entropy, decay and the dust of the cold fire of the Abyss. One sought out the old vellum of gnosticators, mad priests of oblivion and silence; followed the ignorance of blacker mystics of non-thought in their hollowed out caves where the molten alchemies of a inebriate insights so pure and evil consume the world. A freedom delivering nothing less than an apocalypsis of ecstatic and rebellious fractures beyond all repair. A freedom releasing us from the traps set by Time’s cenobites: those Watchers and archontes of the foretime whose desires gave birth to silence and ignorance: a realm of total madness, a livid plenum so vast and devastating that all light is shriven of its hellish joys. A Pleroma of pure vastation and catastrophe where the baseness of material existence sets fire to its own rebellious sparks, and in the end things become that which is the unmaking of desire… a collapse beyond recall or memory.
One soon discovered a wall against which one could go no further as if a dark ring of fire encompassed this circle of the human, a circle beyond which there were no inroads. One traveled among those tribes of wanderers and lunatics, the philosophers, poets, mystics of darkness and the abyss seeking hints of alterity; finding none. One listened to the melancholy words of broken monks and saints, the scryings of the beleaguered, the scrapings in the pit of despair of mad prophets and gleaners of forbidden tomes. But all to no avail. All ended in that torpor of spirit that leads to the edge of things where nothing but the emptiness and blankness of thought lives like an orphaned magus for whom the real offered neither rapture nor ecstatic oblivion, only the endless salience of a repetition without boundaries. Here in this black motion of thought where repetition measures its blind circuit of fractured screeches in a night of nights one came to that final density against which we all come if we would attain the unmaking of our being: all is known, nothing is known; everything known and unknown unbinds us from thought to the unthought… in the moment of our unraveling into nonbeing our death enters the greater obscurity of things without mystery or limit… the limitless vistas of degradation absolve us into an eternity of nothingness from which our exile is a homecoming in pure madness and freedom.
We are the children of contradiction for whom the accident of time is nothing more than a grand edifice of mirrors, a vast labyrinth and prison for a fatal thought without terminus. Borne of darkness we live out our lives in solitude and unknowing repeating the gestures of others who have already lounged in the halls of a fetid eternity. Copies of copies we sleep in the Sleeper’s den of dreams like mindless zombies believing our lives have meaning and a reason for being, when in fact the ground of our faith is ashes and graves; a posterity of extinction and total exile. Even the thought of exit is too much effort; we know there is no exit, only another turn in the cyclic madness of our kind. We are mere repetitions of sickening thoughts that have emanated from death’s supremacy; a kingdom of harsh delights we once craved, and have now grown ghostly in ennui. Caged in the semblances of life we walk in a maze of unending silence like afterthoughts of being rather than Being. Nightmare denizens of a broken and blind thought we merely repeat the vain gestures of transgression against a world that is neither real nor ours, a system of delusion so vast it encompasses the very end of thought itself. Beggars of extinction we can only attain the outer ruins of that dark circle that encloses us in its cage of desire and want.
Even those of us with aggressive spirits who seek above all an aristocracy of the mind, a noble life above the degradation we inhabit are but dreamers of the void rather than its victors. Victims of our own derisions we rise against the hollow spheres of time like black angels seeking retribution against the crimes of heaven’s ruinous masters, knowing full well that heaven is a myth invented by our troubled thoughts; a vanity against our hopes turned into eternal indifference and destiny. Heaven is a myth for a lost paradise that never was nor could be, a blind man’s game against the truth; and we the losers in this anti-cosmic drama are neither victims nor instigators, merely the artists of a debilitating banality and turpitude. Agents of despair our insubordination of all authority leads us to reign in those sublime powers that rise within the tertiary striations of our angelic eyes. Sifting through the embers of our ash born subject hood we discover the last black light of a failed thought. Like members of a rogue sect – heresiologists of a mutant world, we follow the fatal strategies of our solitudes into a solace founded on despair and defunct prayers for an extinction beyond redemption.
One of Leopardi’s poems ends:
“Maybe in whatever form or state,
be it in stall or cradle,
the day we’re born is cause for mourning.”
It’s this sense of a Gnosticism without religion, of an acknowledgement of vast malevolent forces ruling our universe, but that in this rule of utter atrocity the truth shows itself in that these forces are absolutely indifferent and unknowning of our existence, our appeals, and our anathemas. Our gods are dead, our brains send forth scribblings and allegories of ignorance, our sciences are magical systems of heretical thought tracing the secret patterns of extinction across the distant darkness of the riven abyss…
In truth we are nothing, will remain nothing, formed from the formless sea of nothingness like so many drops in the abyss of utter mindlessness, crafted to the blind thoughts of a blind abjectness. Our tears are the fruit of death and oblivion. Eros is the heart of a broken promise, a dream of blacker light and death’s darker abysses where the mutant thoughts of an unraveling of Being gathers us all into its torments, and the secret delights of an unbounded thought yields to the frozen mire of a black sun immanent to thought itself. We who shined so brightly on the edge of Time’s dark habitation, we who once dreamed the dreams of hellish paradises, we who like so much dust rose up in gravitas against the ancient stars, brokered the sands of ancient sea-beds, walked along the black shores of forbidden planets and galactic corridors, lifted our semblances between the twitching membranes of a churning thought of earth, and sang our hymns to the mysteries of extinction have come to the final motion of our kind where time and chaos like lost lover’s embrace each other in a conflagration which will consummate in a rapture of pure extinction of thought within thought… all our salvatory dreams come to naught in this cesspool of oblivion where we float among the debris of this catastrophe, this accident – within the cold fires of Absolute zero where being migrates into non-being… only here can laughter at the edge of things, arise!
– S.C. Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.