very depressive and naked and personal meditation on the Shoah and all whatver that implicates

Yes, it has become my life's main goal to never fall victim to the destructive wave of the many, for my legs shall be steadfast in the morass it leaves when the waters retract with the tide! Yes, it has become the purpose of my life to show myself - and the world - that it is possible to do so. If I ever have to confess to some court of my tribunal, with the black sludge of shame and self-hatred having replaced my intestines, that - "I was just following orders", then my worth as a human being has been irrevocably expended. 
The thought of this possibility, of becoming possessed by the many, is real to me and to everyone else, for it is a human possibility, and whatever is human in us, is hard to scrape off with the blunt side of a knife: humanity is not just dog-shit on the sole of our shoe, however much we wish for it, and to admit defeat to the ugliest demons of this humanity, is to admit defeat as a human being, and it is to become oneself mere dog-shit on the sole of something great; sardonic; godlike... 

To lose oneself is to become the many, and this has become, over the lapse of years, the most trepidating and angstsome nightmare of my life. It is the only existential prospect from which I feel horror; that, and to die in a clumsy, accidental and humiliating way. Thence I shall do everything in my power to make sure that, if the day of sombre reckoning really comes my path, and if the judges and attorneys then smite me with the questions and inquiries whose responses I can not formulate with a straight spine, then I shall recognize that I have failed catastrophically in my life. I shall surely have the power to kill myself out of pure and simple self-revulsion from uttering those words with a conscientious heart, "I was just following orders"!  

For this reason,  I absolutely hate parts of what I am and what I am capable of. I am disgusted - sometimes in a very total way - by myself and my own capabilities. I would want to commit suicide out of shame - but maybe things have amounted, by then, to such a pathetic summit that I require fucking orders for that at well?
Who am I, even, to have the luxury of killing myself in my own debasement and self-hatred? Cattle are herded to the abbatoir - pigs can not choose the glamour of suicide as its final statement to the world! And maybe that option is depleted for me as well! For by this day, and afore the tribunal of my damnation, I have erased the lines I have focused a whole life to draw, the lines between the one and the many - and cowards do not deserve suicide. 

Yes, it has become the goal of my whole project of self-improvement, yes indeed the focal purpose of my very life, to be able to think, when the hearse comes my path, the phantom carriage of death, that in all my life, I never followed an order I knew I ought not to follow. 

...to remain oneself within a world that is constantly trying to make one something else than what one is, is the highest virtue of mankind, the ethos of the warrior hero, the one imbued with art and poetry - and every hero knows that conformity is but a pathetic mimicry of genius; politics a failure of self-governance, ideology a depravation of philosophy, normativity a failed imitation of heroism - and paradise, a dying, receding utopia of fools... here they say: you do not need your light, we can share ours! But I shall need my own; what is subjective light if not the only light by which I may outline the hideous one, and by which I may discern the contours of the beast rearing in the shadows? For me, there is yet a darkness, it has not coalesced with light as has happened within paradise. What is your sole light amidst a billion others, they say. I say, it is everything, precisely because it is subjective, and it is with this subjectivity I stake my path of heroes through all the mateiral and ecumenical truths swallowing like quagmires whole battalions on the existential frontline!

Ebih the Careless Mountain

Ebih has been around forever, and Ebih sees all; she has seen all and she has gotten tired of it; by the time the Batak massacre happened, she started to question her own interest; when Nanjing happened, she got even more self-aware; when Katyn came around, she began to become distracted and preoccupied by people who showcased different talents than in the grisly art of malevolence... by the time My Lai, Halabja and Srebrenica rolled over the threshold she had become so distraught by the human sadistic grotesqueries as to alienate from them in bitter spite and foresworn those who carried them out, and by the act of doing so, she did not longer weep for the humans, nor much care at all... and so the ghosts of all the men who had fallen from the mountain-sides lamented even harder, because now they had gotten their recepit for hopelesness, a slap across the face from mother herself, what an abrupt end to a purgatorium eternal but in ever failure! And at the realization of her cold aloofness, they wailed spectrally like funereal children! And the crime of their downfall? Love. Yes, simple, pure love.

they piss themselves on the mud-stomped floors of their huts, crawled up in foetal positions like humble, tearing babies, and words run out in lumps of mucus over the bibs of existence hanging around their necks

excerpt #4859

I know that it is a mistake to entrust a dragon of the absolute bottom with but a smile! I know this, but I have felt the naïvety of seduction, the she-dragon shifting shape into a most beautiful woman...

laugh in silence in heinous accord with the teethless mouths of viperfish, for they sing psalms of tremendous beauty as a compensation for being so god-damned ugly, and they vibrate with the profound baritone of the she-dragon herself, which lubricates their disgusting fish-vaginas so as to become dripping with the secrete of slimy, spineless desires... mmm...

fucking nonsense

If the summit of human courage and of iron will and discipline is not found embodied within the 17 year old girl, Lepa Radic, then I do not know at all where it can be found. This, whoever reads this fucking shit, is a testimony to the spirit of human heroism, nothing more, nothing less. Fuck all of you rats who do not work in aspiration of this heroism, or do not even idealize it. Just dwell on this for a minute, will you; these two examples of courage. Just dwell on what kind of strength human beings are capable of.

from the warlovediary

"No, I must conclude: I am not longer calling myself a misanthrope, it is a too one-dimensional designation to put on oneself. It is silly and shallowly informed; it is a self-identity of weakness, it is an unimpressive and empty contemplation, it is a route of least resistance to say to all humans: I hate you all, all of you I hate, and everything of you, and everything in you I hate. Everything you have done, I hate, everything that is charachteristic and natural to you, I hate. These are the utterances of a child. Rather, I would say, I hate with passion alot of human beings and alot of what human beings do and bla bla, but by the same token, my passion for the loveable amongst us is great, it is great and blue and fiery."

aforyzm miłości

 Love in itself will not save a relationship of romance lest it has not swimming deep within the oceans of itself the mysterious stream of genuine effort and plain luck, for true love exists, yes, that is sure to me, but what is indeed true as well about it is that it is not existentially self-evident over time. Life-long romance comes with a dire and insolvent price not many men nor women can muster to pay.

aefoeriesmee

We are defined by what we love, and we are defined by how and when we direct our care. Ask yourself the question, who am I. Who am I? Am I all or am I none at all, even nothing at all? No, I am the very things I love - and I think Heidegger was right. Knowledge, reason, rationality, morality, law - all such concepts - will only take you so far, and when they leave you off, passion, faith and intuition will pick you up - if you ask them. 

aforisme !!!

Your ship is safe at harbour, but that is not what ships are built for, are they? Test the waters, make forceful love to the deepest watery abyss: only then you may come to terms with the true resilience and worthiness of your ship.

aforisme

The hero risks and the hero fails - he travels the path of the jaguar!- but the hero never risking is not a hero at all; for he has failed from the very start.

from the "anti-modernity" diaries:

The indian surgeon Sushruta related obesity to diabetes and cardiac afflictions - as a remedy, he recommended physical labour... and he did so in the 7th century before Christ! And you still close your eyes to the insight, you still choose to welter in your saturated fats, your orgies in sugar and soulless depravity! Your corpulence is disgusting to me and your lifestyle is a sickening joke to me.

"I WILL SPEAK OF FREEDOM", PART III

Not even the slave can be morally pristine, pure of heart, even though the slave is a total victim. The slave overcomes himself with the thirst for freedom and justice, because he is imprisoned, but when freedom and justice has been acquired properly, the slave may overcome himself thence with the thirst to rule over men ― and that is precisely when the slave becomes again a slave, as if a vicious circle reborn, or as if a viper fanging its own tail: the slave has redefined himself, observably and clearly futile to the power of corruption - a subordination like any other... whom amongst us could ever have believed that the slave, of all people, would transmit his own sufferings onto the other, and in the same cruel and malevolent style as the perpertrators of his own diabolical torments had done? There is inherent a seed of wilful submission in the constituency of man, and it is there as to manage, as to get a handle on, as to face the catastrophe of our existential conditions... but do not weep the story until the ending has revealed itself, for therein is also a seed of heroism in incubation! Man has the prerequisite in of heroism in him, but if a man can not confront its authority - be it an authority wilfully submitted to, or  be it one tyrannically and reprehensibly imposed - he will not amount to much; it has been said that it is easier to reign a city than it is to reign yourself, and that seems to be as truthful as anything can possibly be. It is not the hero which yearns for authority but paradoxically, it is the slave whom does so, and that is the nature of man - man, most of them, slaves, imprison the petty criminals, and they deprive them of their basic freedoms; they might even hang them or make them subject to public campaigns of humiliation... but they, in the midst of their darker episodes, appoint the heinous criminals to public office, to roles of tremendous leadership, and to heights of profound influence! Why is this? The slave cries out for freedom and for democracy, but not because the slave wants true freedom nor true democracy, but because it is within the slave to be as content as a slave could ever be, and slaves find their solace in authority: democracy, fundamentally, is a cesspool of slave morality, and almost only the awry kinds of people would aspire to utilize its concept and to paint his or her life pictures with the brushes of it! Only servants of slave morality, with some rare but spectacular exceptions, would be willing to exercise might over their fellow men, because no free man seeks or purports to seek the complete dominance over others, this is existential thralldom in itself, and not domination - the irony! The only righteous domination is the domination of yourself and your enemies; there is no solace for a hero in controlling and subjugating his kin; the neighbour, the acquaintance, the average commoner, be it anyone, lest they have made a move towards you. Tread these sentences carefully, though: I do not speak of violence, of terrorism, of mockery, for these things may see justifiable utility - I have seen it, I shall continue to see it across the span of my life... I speak not of these things but of domination and mastery, and over prolonged periods of time: the asp of corruption smite with fangs every despot and every tyrant of this world... and that is but a matter of time, for these exhibitions of dominance are merely projections: the man who wishes to rule over men lusts after it in order to compensate for his own failure to rule over himself. Whether the man seeking to dominate is aware of this or not, is a completely separate question. Yes, as slaves we all but the very few are, we may indeed imprison the petty criminal whose mind is great, and we may put on a pedestal the tyrannical criminals whose minds are feeble and cruel if not worse, and we do so because of the freedoms of stability and illusory self-reliance they offer; some sell domination with democracy, others with totalitarianism; for the clear-headed individual, these are just different degrees to tyranny; different styles to collectivism; mere different stages of the Machiavellian disaster. Both despotism and democracy corrupts the individual over time: in the case of despotism, it takes a fortnight; nothing corrupts like tyranny... in the case of democracy however, it may take a whole life, and it will generally be a much slower process, as if a poison growing in toxicity, in strength with every false claim to autonomy the slave has the conceit to utter, and for both cases it is a very truth that many people are captured by the lures of their propagandistic machineries of indoctrination - and then they believe they are truly free! But perhaps they are right... who am I to justfully define the tenets of freedom? None am I to do so! But I have learned empirically that, if taking freedom for granted, granted becomes only the curse of its most hurtful and paradoxical aspects - and nothing else.

"I WILL SPEAK OF FREEDOM", PART II

I believe the human being is only free insofar as we nurture the freedom by which define ourselves. Leave it to the machinery of democracy and even thereout it will be snatched, as if a beautiful pearl from a muscle! It makes me think of the Scorpion and the Frog, the powerful fable: A scorpion asks a frog to carry it across a river, whereupon the frog is hesitating, fearing for his alive, afraid of being stung. The scorpion cleverly argues with the frog that if it did so, if it stung the frog they would both drown; considering the solidity of the scorpion's argument, the frog agrees. Midway across the river, to the very dismay of the frog, the scorpion indeed smites the frog with its poisonous barb, dooming them both to the death of drowning. Despairingly, the frog asks the scorpion why it would do such a thing, wherupon the scorpion replies cynically that it is indeed in its nature to do so, and that nothing else but the statement of this profound fact could be said about this behaviour. It just is what it is. What do I want to say with this? Yes, man is no more than the nature heavy enough to cram him down, as if a huge boulder, to the ground, to the sediment of his primordial origin. Democracy is a frog, human nature is a scorpion. But lo, for man may tamper with his natures, whileas, as to the extent we can know of such a thing, the scorpion may not; man can assume the posture of a scorpion, we too can weaponize its venoms as for utility in combat, and we too can deceive and stab backs and sink our ship of kindness - out of foulness. With the stength of heroism, man may become the Girtablilu of the ancient Akkadian mythos... and by that time, why do we even need the frog? The heroic Girtablilu traverses every river as he pleases! But there is one thing he does not, however, do, and that is taking his powers for granted, for he is surely a powerful synergy of man and beast, but not even a scorpian-man is without enemies; if they are not leering behind their backs as he sleeps, then surely they are nesting within the inmost dens of his own heart!

"I WILL SPEAK OF FREEDOM", PART I

I will speak of freedom: we are so spoiled by the freedoms we have acquired that the pursuit beyond what we already have does not feel worth anymore, because what kind of freedom is left to be acquired when we have already conquered the shallower but more obvious ones we came out to look for in the first place?  Freedom of speech; freedom of organization and of publicization; general suffrage, equality afore the judicial courts, general freedom of identity and of subcultural and aesthetic expression... what is left beyond these? The slave is content with his crescent smile, for the answer is nothing! Nothing is left to fend for... but the world does not care for democracy in the long run, not on an individual level, not on a collectivist or societal one, not on a global one, and when the slave blots his neck to this world believe to be dealt the kiss of grace and mercy, the hero strikes him, slashing throat of the slave, ripping the head off its torso, and drinks the bloodpour out therefrom! The head falls to the ground with a noise. The hero puts his foot on it, and proclaims that this fool, yes, he was only the mockerer of freedom, an impostor, a believer of false truth. Man may do whatever he wants with his life, but the world does not accept the tampering with the conceptual and philosophical definition of freedom; the world will strike those who do. Promulgation of false freedom dilapidates onto itself like a New York tower at the hands of those who seek the freedom themselves to terrorize it. Yes, the slave is dead, and the hero remarks proudly that there is freedom left to find, but it is of a kind that is not at all merciful in its every turn, not ever-joyous like some precious fucking MDMA from heaven, and it is not liberating from darkness, ever-encouraging, ever-benevolent... No, rather what is left for us to acquire is the freedom which harrows every mind believing to truly possess it, and that is the freedom of personal authenticity; not a legislative freedom as to control the collective but as a subjective freedom and a call to personal heroism. Our freedoms have gotten so luxurious that we recurringly drown in them, and we recurringly fail to appreciate the murkiness out of which they grow; we can not recognize the origin of our own luxury, we can not trace back to its genesis our strong and thesean thread, for we have been so spoiled as to have become neutralized by the result of the very fight for freedom we say we fight for; the morale of the fight is waning! We have come to have it good as it already is! Not too much freedom; not too little, just comfortable, safe, stable little freedoms. We want all the cute freedoms, don't we? And when we have so acquired them, we fucking love them. It is for this reason we, as individuals and as a culture, will turn elsewhere - for the fight for freedom has already been "won"! But casual, soft freedom, as with everything holy in nature, dilapidates over itself with time. It has used ignorance itself as its scaffolding, it has not been properly comprised, and for this reason, it can not be properly maintained either; a lumberjack may not cut a tree with his bare hands, being anxious to use the axe in fear of striking himself! An individual, or a culture by the same token, may not grow into freedom only with the festivals of rejoice and the dance of celebration as its only criteria of inauguration, but indeed must take in account too the forces of destruction wishing to strike terror to all the laughters of this glorious investiture - with bombs, with guns, with mockeries, and with public and striking agitation! The wolves in the hinterland are always ravenous for meat they have killed themselves; the darkness swirling in the farthest expanses of freedom likewise leer with predation - always, and when the time is right, the time is right.