“Man himself has become more enigmatic for us. We ask again: What is man? A transition, a direction, a storm sweeping over our planet, a recurrence or a vexation for the gods? We do not know. Yet we have seen that in the essence of this mysterious being, philosophy happens.”
– Martin Heidegger, The End of Philosophy
We are vanishing into our digital dreams – some say, nightmares; not out of excitement, but rather from an absolute malaise, a profound boredom. Distraction and the ecstasy of speed, the coveted attunement to the machinic life of our artificial inception draws us onward. Like necronauts exiting the imponderable weight of the flesh we enter this new world of light, citizens of glamour, driven only by the fashionable excess of apathy and disdain. As we leave behind forever our organic heritage for the cosmic riddles of the artificial, we write our elegies on the night of our metamorphosis; mutants – one and all, splaying the vestiges of the chrysalis of our demented histories, each falling away into forgetfulness.
Technological revelation rather than appropriation should become the order of the day. Knowing as we know our disposition toward this inception, this revealing of the core of our inhuman technicity, our ‘will to will’. We should open our lives to the future of our mutant investiture, accept the passing of the human into the inhuman other, not as nostalgic disaffection and despair; and neither as the optimistic outcome of some prolific instigation at the heart of temporicity, but rather as the immanent realization of that dark prelude to our disappearance. Disappearance is not to be mourned, but rather to be lived in by the very actions of our becoming Other. We’ve always been in unique transition, always known within by the feint whisperings of things, that we are transitional beings – bridges to that which is in us more than us. There is a transcendence, but only in immanence, a movement in things: the illusive entrainment of their impossibility: the wavering between which brings with it the compositional artifacts of desire that always are and never end.
Maybe in the end we are just faulty programs in a broken reality system, built by an artificial mind for a lonely and blind child for the sheer pleasure of an afternoon’s stay on the abandoned beachhead of an accidental cosmos. Or, maybe we are the glance of futurial beings, their eyes melding with the galactic melodies of strange and wondrous revelations, as they call to us in their turning metamorphic and mutant, singing of the darkness and the light at the end of things.