Today, I must apricate beneath the Sun until we Become whole. I have grown weary of the frost: forgive me, Necessity.

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2

Everywhere one senses Becoming. In the most petite of shrubs; in the grains of sand you chew awkwardly on after sipping from a water bottle that, too, was baking. Becoming gives these phenomena their form; so, obviously, it would be incorrect to say sand is more ubiquitous than Becoming.

If Becoming is the foundation—the Mother of all that exists in the world and the universe—why does one sustain such fear and hostility toward it?

Man believes the shrubs and the sands—and, devastatingly, himself—to be victims of the sole truth that gave form to them and to him. And not only does he sob caddishly; he freezes this truth too. He sees firm brown branches, armoured with thorns that will bloom into violent roses beneath only a few more Spring Suns… and calls it a shrub. He sees a diaspora of crispy grains that know only burning, stomping, and kidnappings committed by the tide… and calls it sand.

His haziness does not arise from concept itself. It arises from this: once the concept is attached to the phenomena, the concept morphs into a “thing” that will “be”—until someone with the snout of a German Shepherd arrives and sniffs out the heart of Becoming.

He sees his own temporality, furrows the skin on his forehead, and returns to the dungy festivities he wishes would “last longer.”

3

How wonderful individuality and solitude are. I cannot fathom residing with a man who unceasingly deadens life; a man who colours Becoming grey with his hope. A “still river” of acedia.

4

Vellichor and petrichor unforgivingly rape the nose in the most pleasing way.

5

Whatever Becomes is free from being.1

6

We often laugh at a pup for chasing its own tail; however, I am certain the grand comedy lies in man chasing permanence.

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7

The most sought-after method of freeing oneself from Becoming masquerades as the plea: “I just wanna be happy.”

8

The nose is Becoming organified.

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9

Living is scarcely touched—even brushed—in any field of knowledge. Where everything should have burst forth from Becoming, there remains an aporetic tussle with being; it infects science, theology, philosophy—it infects man.

About halfway through our trek from the heart back to the liver, I noticed that the local children were still wide awake. It was 11:43p.m and they were either booting dog-bitten footballs, riding rusted scooters, or laughing at words they were warned not to blabber. This tiny home arrested me in particular. In its driveway I saw six tanned lives that had just begun: the oldest was probably 10, the youngest was definitely 3. They were running up and down, chasing each other around this stretch of concrete turned battlefield. The children were amid a war between the midnight darkness and a lone, effulgent soldier: the archetypal European lightbulb. K. was 103 metres ahead of me; she had her faculties and was tired.

The soldier had called reinforcements: light-up shoes, worn by the three-year-old as an Olympian wears his gold. Neon pink, neon green, neon blue—such were the colours brewing around both soles of the toddler. I burped and drifted across the cracked road to examine this interplay of humans, light, and gods more closely. They all had black hair. They were all moving in a cutely corybantic way. They were all unaware that what stood, elongated and cream, between them and an entire town was a peeling, rusted gate. They were too inexperienced to weep over the Sun’s death.

Behind them, an avid noctivagant was doing what he does best.

It was 11:46p.m. and K. had stopped: slouched, pouting, and wanting to shower. She texted me politely—“hurry up cunt.”

“No. You go ahead. I will quietly catch up and scare you with a pair of hands around your neck in like a few minutes.”

“You look like a pedo from where I am.”

“I am in my natural habitat now gimme a fucken break. I am soaking this up cause we leave tomorrow.”

“Soaking what up?”

Soaking up this apotheosis of children. The gods floated warmly, gifting the children their power; yet no one could feel or see this except me. It was 11:48p.m. and K. had wasted two of her sacred minutes texting me.

I had the room key.

The three-year-old was marching hard backwards towards the end of the driveway—the beginning of the world—a gate. He stopped and leaned against it not out of fatigue but to recharge his shoes. Pink, green, blue… pink, green, blue… he was waiting with the patience and precision of a crocodile.

Suddenly, the warm European lightbulb was swallowed by the midnight darkness. The other five were now inside.

It was 11:49p.m.

“Mateo!”

Mateo nearly tripped when he leapt away from the gate and ran into his mother’s bosom.

All I could see were his shoes. All I could hear was swift Spanish and yawning. All I could smell was an oneiric bronze love.

K. was about to yell out to me when an unanticipated breath of fresh wind made her irritation retreat. The gods had now gone back to dictating natural disaster, and now I must meditate on the next home.

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Language is at its most hypnotic, yet also at its driest, when reason is amplified—not because reason is unworthy, but because such grandiosity betrays something deeper concealed within the logician’s psyche.

2

Ultracrepidarianism would plummet without speech. Do you seriously believe Sneako would adapt by handwriting his immensely buffo geopolitical takes?

3

Reason merely postpones eruption.

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4

Eleutheromania: the precondition for greatness, power, and legacy.

5

“Any concession to the instincts leads to unconsciousness,” said the logician who was himself enchanted by the Mother archetype—a sturdy mama’s boy.

6

Decadence does not disappear when you mask it with marble benchtops, marble floors, marble everywhere.

Why does the unconscious man love marble so much? Because it resembles him: a slab of stone polished just finely enough never to question its own stoniness—its stagnation.

7

When one climaxes into a method of “self-improvement”—a term that never deserved to exist—the result itself is just another form of decadence more pleasantly arranged around some societal ideal that is rewarded with the fatigued applause of others.

Its costumes are innumerable: obsessing over the contents of food—particularly healthy food; yearning to arrive at the gym; optimising every conceivable intake; romanticising what was already romantic.

Why must one romanticise something that ought already to be fulfilling? Why is this human lullabying itself? Most importantly: what exactly needs to be soothed?

8

An unanticipated serein drizzled against the finite hospital window.

Had it not been for this, she would have vowed herself to the malaise.

The reprieves of the lucky and old!

Philosophy: cumbersome, colossal, changing and yet forever authentic. With all its theories and mouths, there has still never been a more swollen and unappreciated truth than this:

“…a destiny of a task compels one to run into the sun every moment to shake off a heavy, all-too-heavy seriousness.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

2

There is no use in leading if what you lead is only haziness wrapped in thick wool. The task of Shepherd belongs to One alone; only One—a much mooted One—“a mere Shepherd” who is fullest when His Blood is least?

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3

Only when you Become—when you cease to endorse yourself as representative; worse, to flaunt yourself as actor; most fatally, to squawk as the actor’s parrot—can “we” marvel at your Becoming and hush, while you soak righteously in your lucid and vital haecceity.1

4

You must not spend your whole life climbing a single flight of stairs.

5

Too much “wanting” is not our dilemma. Too little “that-ing” of our “wanting” is. I believe the susurration of childhood will yet heal us.

6

Our age of wants is collapsing.

7

Truth must blossom into a petal of life.

8

“GOOD THING FOR ME THEN THAT YOUR PHILOSOPHY DON’T MEAN OOGATZ TO ME! What’s yours is yours, Socrates, but what ain’t is anybody else’s.”

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9

No tyranny is more tasteless than that of the dictator who demands the laughing one to stop laughing.2

10

Complaining is the sedative of those who are, in fact, not bothered by the circumstance.

11

Whining is going out of fashion… I wish.

12

Judgement is self-exposure: no more, no less. Our age knows this; why, then, do we persist in so ugly a habit?

13

It is impossible to be both Greek and ugly: an oxymoron. The pair genuinely do not look lovely together. Examine; suspend your sporadic thoughts—Greek… ugly…

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14

If I take the corner of my right thumbnail and repeatedly pierce the flesh of a moist, thick leaf—and, in reaction to this wounding, the leaf decays “hideously”3—should I weep over this process, this degradation I cannot change?

Or should I begin, at that very moment, with what I can still bestow: caress the leaf, feed it to the sun, nourish whatever verdure survived?

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15

When one’s instincts fall into anarchy, one mutates into a bodybuilder of logic.

16

Sarcasm is a privilege the slumbering can never possess.

17

Happiness is not something the Greek yearns for. He is no pessimist—only no fool. Look at his creations! His ancestors! Happiness cannot help but be attracted to such an organism. If you were Happiness, would you really waltz toward Misery—the logician—and try to persuade him?

18

Happiness knows what it wants. Happiness is stubborn. Happiness’ age of wants is not collapsing.

19

The will to dialectic is a justification of one’s own paralysis: another of modern man’s “phantasmic alignments” that delays years of laughter. Dialectic is intrinsic, much like instinct; however, it enjoys the void—not the beauty.

20

An immoderate, almost compulsive tendency toward sarcasm or irony—as one’s first response, born neither of conscious thought nor vital instinct, but of infantile sleep—is the surest sign of resentment.

Keep sucking on your dummy.

21

1: How did Socrates become master over himself? He masturbated.

22

2: What was Socrates? He was Reason. So, Reason masturbated until Reason—Socrates—“blew” because of Socrates.

23

3: Do I actually loathe Socrates? No. But we must admit there are a few Socratics4 in rule today…

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26

No cure is easy.

Digest this quietly: Life is corybantic; there is no will but yours. To immediately eruct impotently at this is to fantasise that somewhere beneath Life slumbers a recondite script. To imagine the will of something else, to outsource the tide’s turn—he would rather loop inside validation than breaststroke through assent, creation, and the Present.

2

Suppose there were some recondite script: it would not be recondite by virtue of its complexity, but because man naps! Digest this alone: everything that happened, happened; everything is going in the only way it can go, and will forever go. If you could have blown a single speck of dust from your fingernail a minute earlier, then you could also have killed Judas while he was learning to walk. That is the “script”. Now ask yourself: is it really a script—or is it simply Nature?

3

Things just happen until someone decides to do.

4

You, me—we would all espy their activities from the rear window. However, only a few of us would intensely observe Miss Lonelyhearts; the rest would drop the binoculars and return to brooding over a broken leg.

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5

Creation does not beg to be seen—it staggers.

6

A checklist of sham reasons, before you have even felt the circumstance, spills your incapacity to balance.

7

Politics shrivels the moment it is called to fruition. I know this because man loves to babble on about his ideology, only to forget it the next morning when a “revisionist” waltzes into his garden. The best at politics do not allow even eyes upon their gardens—let alone bodies!

8

Your ideology must accept that suicide by suffocation is a more formidable fate than a thousand squirrels scratching their way to your heart. Furthermore, those who accept it cannot be acorns.

9

When you look inward, you remain in the present. When you look backward, you leave the present. The only people who should look backward and remain there are historians: Burckhardt, Thucydides. Your life is more sacred than Jumanji.

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10

Modern man has somehow made routine seem like an error. Meal preparation is not creation; drinking three litres of water is sinful if you have never washed your wastefulness away in the Aegean.

11

Modern man has somehow made profundity seem lesser than gossip. Where does profundity even come from nowadays? Repetition.

Élan amid gloom! Suspend prejudice and contemplate these two words: one is stylish; the other drags its feet.

2

Alexis Zorba—I know of no man capable of greatness who would fail to be charmed by such a character. We wish to embody him—not exactly, but in certain idiosyncrasies… the dancing? His nature suffuses both the Boss and us: a testimony to abundance.1

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3

Lucubration precedes explosion.

4

Palingenesis, as regeneration, can be seen only where a wound once was.

5

Power born of discovery, organisation, and accumulation—true power—comes out from the mines only to genuinely vomit at the superficial opponents upon whom it must now discharge itself.

6

Eternity lost its wonder when the philosopher ceased to be the only man permitted to grasp at it. Place eternity in the hands of idiots who idolise gigantic idiots, and you feed the sacred to rabid dogs.

7

Big ears are the greatest weapon one can possess—a nuclear bomb.

8

Only the noctivagant cats hear the locks that fail to hold.

9

Only the noctivagant cats see the cracks.

10

My feet are rooted in this platform; I physically cannot catch the train with them. Bump into my branches—if you are lucky, I may plunk a leaf onto your scalp.

11

Lucubration precedes explosion. Solitude precedes lucubration. Somewhere before solitude was the philosopher’s Moro reflex.2

12

There is a difference between the truth of nature and the truth of unnature. Nature is indeed simple: drinking, eating, laughing, walking, smelling. Unnature, however, is anfractuous. How else could we have utilised this many years softly undressing it—ever since Thales’ obsession with water? Théleis neró, Thalí?

13

The philosopher is soft; the philosophy is colossal. Hence, Helios’ effulgence was wrought by mere men.

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14

Wisdom authorises ignorance to ease the philosopher’s bottomless hunger for knowledge—not blindness.

15

Redemption is possible so long as the now is.

16

You cannot conquer destruction; it is ineluctable. What you can do, however, is make your destruction so staggering that all of us are compelled to perceive it as beautiful.3

17

Seek a “why” so noetic that you appear to be seeking nothing. Wear a food-stained t-shirt whilst doing so.

18

How is it that so many full moons have passed and everything has evolved—all but the listener?

19

Enough. It’s done.

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