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/rp/ is for the discussion of religion, philosophy and its related literature, specifically books (fiction & non-fiction), short stories, poetry, creative writing, etc. If you want to discuss numbers go to /numo/. Philosophical discussion can go on either /rp/ or /numo/, but those discussions of philosophy that take place on /rp/ should be based around specific philosophical and religious works to which posters can refer.

/rp/ is a slow board!
what is anonymous? it is the unnamed, what is a name? a name is related projection of something. an image, a symbol, a representation. some would go as far as to say these representations are not real, but they are still related to the thing that has created them via lemur-connection, then what is the nature of this symbol-projection-image nature? 

to know of anything there is a source, but what does it mean that there is a source? it means that there is a separation between what is kept (the thing) and what is discarded (luminance/radiance). then what is radiance? is radiance itself a part of the thing or is it already not the thing? they are both the thing and not at the same time, they carry within them the nature of the thing but at the same time must necessarily escape it. light is contradiction, to speak is to separate, words are power, in the nature that it is utter meaninglessness. a floating signifier, but a floating signifier with a parameter that would allow itself to manifest in manifold ways. is there a quintessential word that can finally be approached at the end of days? to answer is folly, as word is contradiction and unity manifest in itself, blasphemous, demonic, and begins the descent into a age of paranoia and self-destruction. this is the nature of sin, and has been inside the speech and power of god from the very beginning. to love god is to fight god, but in such a perverse way, that even that itself is wrong. where do we begin, where do we end? yhesh, the framework of denying institutional religion is valid but how do you make it so that it doesn't devolve into a fit of rage? that means bearing witness to the truth of all things, like a moth to a flame, dying to a flame, there is true radiance, the origin, and outside of it it digs back into itself, the project begins not by a spatial anomaly, the project doesn't begin with a strict adherence to norms, to established truths, it means to dwell in sin, penetrate sin, transmogrifying transmortifying sin, to burn, to atone, to become one with it, to crawl to search to claw in the land of lustrous illusions and bite off the neck of the dragon to feed it to itself, like a flame that burns itself, a lemurian is not a lemurian, but a monstrous hell that lives in the center of omnipresence, claw claw claw, and write all the demons you see, bite off their faces, eat their bodies, alter your body, your mind, your bodies, alter your alternations, set your sights on a thousand worlds, a thousand seas, and until every world is drowned in the flames of paradise, can there be a beginning again
Luck in life is defined by the suffering within it. The chance we have to surpass the limit and acquire relief however momentary. The Bravery to take the risk for pleasure and to ante up the necessary sacrifice for victory. All of which is to say that suffering breeds desire the force which births all action.

One of the greatest sufferings in life is our state of isolation. Divided from every other being through an infinite void of separation, a barrier of self as a requisite distinction. Defining the self from the void and the other is a requirement of individual existence, and so forms the desire to connect and communicate as an attempt toward relief of the situation. Where infinite suffering exists, infinite love is proposed as a solution. Though love itself has its origins in a violence sufficient to cross the void and break the barriers of self creating a successful communication. An intimate violation which annihilates what was and produces a change. A desire to destroy and be destroyed. A lust for a loss of self and thus a chance to be renewed. Violence as the positive term which brings us towards loss and death which is connection. At the core of life is death, the endstate which unites us all. Each moment we fall through a small one, what was falls away to become what is, which falls away to become what will be. Death is the center 0f being as becoming, change which creates the possibility of the observation of time, the flow of life.
>"I HATE THAT SAVIOR! He ruins my nihilist schemes! He helps the weak and sickly!"
What's your most accursed diety?
Where are they from?
How long have they been following you?
I had an acid trip once where Idididil/Ididid asked if I wanted to talk. Of course I let fear get the better of me pussied out. A shamefully missed opportunity; have been looking for a way to talk to it sense.
Good bye


do svidaniya
Is there anyone else here who is interested in Mara Barls spirituality? I have been following her for a little over a year now and consider myself somewhat of a Mara scholar at this point, like a historian for someone who is still alive, which is probably super creepy but whatever.
She started substacking earlier in 2021, collecting all of her posts into a journal as well as publishing some short essays. She recently published a "glossary of terms" which serves as somewhat of a shortcut to understanding whatever she's on about without having to derive it from context over a period of months as I had to.
Blood child true to its name is 30 pages decorated with the details of a species whose development depends on consuming the flesh of their carrier. An inner species romance of oviposition. Octavia Butler wanted to write a pregnant man story in which “a man became pregnant as an act of love” and thereby managed to write their conventional conception out of existence without managing to liberate anyone. Whether she intends the story to be interpreted as slavery or not, the tale was spun to display an inequality. Here males fill both a dominant and submissive role. Dominant with their wives and submissive with the centipede-like* aliens who utilize their flesh as incubators for the flesh eating maggots they develop from. After an incubation period the flesh eating worms are removed through a gash which facilitates fishing them out of the hosts circulatory system, where they are promptly placed in a fresh cadaver to consume¹. Each birth a cesarean with the promise of torment and death in either a late term or if one of the grubs is missed. Our hero, Gan, is hesitant at first, but with a bit of coaxing and with the threat of being left for his sister whom it’s known would allow it (she has been expecting to carry life within her since the beginning after all) eventually relents, agreeing to let the squirmers take up residence inside him. Excitedly stripping down and opening his blood vessels to the cold ovipositor of his creepy crawly lover’s many nodules embrace. How romantic!

Though I’d contest her more notable achievement was writing a parasite that takes advantage of the cycle of human development. One which abuses a mechanism by which we are already sexually repressed in the traditional family structure, the incest taboo. Such a structure demands that any child must make an early distinction between emotional and sexual love, and is used to preserve and instill the traditional roles of mother and father, man and woman. However, the Tlic parasites have managed to insert themselves as an additional point in the structure and alter how the system is encoded. Firstly abusing the initial state of dominant and submissive sexual drives to capture preference for itself in a second abuse of the family structure by embodying both the father and mother roles. Giving out narcotic sterile beverages of unconditional love² and holding an attitude of discipline, ownership of the family itself³, and the superior physical force⁴. Thereby offering a choice of association that embodies both aspects of the falsely presumed dynamic, and allowing a partnership that allows both drives to remain active in an alternately shaped repression. Gtoi being birthed from Gan's father and being part of his mothers life since her adolescence has an established presence as family, and is essentially a third parent to Gan. One whom the distinction between emotional and sexual love is never at issue the way it is for the other two parents. Instead we have a predominant relation based around use value.   

A depressingly utilitarian non erotic pansexuality oriented with regards only for reproduction. Bug sex as a bore. In erotic sexualities the excess sexual energy from the eggs is distributed across the system to other objects and acts, giving birth to a plethora of delightful perversions. while here the egg is the main course, and as a result sex could not be more sterile. All energy is expended toward the insertion and development of the egg, none of it is for pleasure, even if some may arise as a consequence to induce the situation. A slight pinch, then the same narcotic effect that is achieved by eating one. Utility, the tacked on piece of necessity that is the stagnation of any romance, freedom from which would be an unequivocal salvation.

¹This practice has been instituted because previous host animals with less intelligence would kill most of the grubbies while they were eating their way out of them.
²“I’m told I was first caged in within Gatoi’s many limbs only three minutes after my birth. A few days later I was given my first taste of egg.”
³Gatoi is the owner of the human preserve in which the family lives
⁴“She knocked me across the room. Her tail was an efficient weapon weather she exposed the sting or not”
What is love?
baby please hurt me

Art, like love, is an eruption. An impassioned explosion of an agonizing inner force ejected outwards in a desperate bid to make itself sensible. A violent incarnation which when effective, cannot fail to impress itself upon those who encounter it and leave them changed. When it bursts forth, or is perceived, it either lays waste to everything in its path or churns it to its own use. The Story of the Eye is a ferocious piece of art, a true tale of love. One which captures contradictory condition we find ourselves in when subjected to it, perhaps better stated as infected by it, but also the trajectory of relationships, and their place in the world in general. In Bataille's own words "...Surrealism... within my books... Coming from a position of transcendent objects that confer an empty superiority on themselves in order to destroy..." From the beginning it has been know that creation begets destruction, and so death and sex are connected at the invisible ends. One of the few pairs that are inseparable, a 3ing of the 2 as a 1. 

Communication appears as an impossibility as it must cross the infinite void which separates individuals. We should not shy away from the fact that death, loss, is the only way of making this connection. Bataille writes extensively about the nature of human sacrifice. In cultures where human sacrifice was practiced it was utilized as a way into mystical experience, and arrival a continuity with other beings. As they observed the torture and death of the victims they recognized themselves in them and were reminded of their shared fate. Entrance into the void at the end of life. Thus death exists as a way of forming continuity between individuals and communication rides on the back on violation. Violence as the positive empty form of loss capable of being carried across the void. Death brings us into continuity,  and violence brings us toward death. Violence forces a death of the self, a change in what I was and the birth of something new. Wanting to be communicated with is a desire for violence and violation. Violence is key that brings us toward death which is why its depictions are linked with sexual arousal. Eroticism, unlike animalistic sexuality, is a fascination, an obsession. Mysticism and eroticism both seek after continuity. Violence in sex, Art, and communication pierce the barriers of self providing a rupture and allowing a connection, continuity. A fusion which is the death of the two previous organisms. Mutual violation is essential to communication and eroticism. Annihilation of what was there for the creation of a new set of beings. What remains of interest then is the application of these aspects in the story as well as ideals, obsession, and fascinations as they apply to the erotic. 

Bataille counted the Sun among one of his many obsessions. A glorious point in the sky so brilliantly incandescent that the price of gazing upon it is a temporary blindness that can be upgraded to a permanent affliction depending on the length of ones indulgence Galileo. In his essay The Rotten Sun Bataille discovers in the Sun a set of symbolic of ideals for what he calls "the most abstract object as it cannot even be looked upon". He represents it's duel aspect in the legend of Icarus with two suns. The first yellow beautiful which warms and invigorates Icarus prompting him to elevations, and the second rotten ugly sun which melts his wings and ignites his flesh transforming him into a screaming clump of carbon falling from the heavens. Desire and risk are present in all ideals. The desire to peruse them which births all action, and the risk that such pursuit will destroy us. At some point Bataille's obsession drove him to prophesize that the pineal gland was on an evolutionary journey to become a solar eye which would emerge from top of the head and be able to look at the sun. An eye that could remain fixated upon his perceived ultimate ideal without losing its vision. A romantic fantasy if I've ever heard one. Though for Bataille the sun is more than just the ultimate abstraction with which to represent our interaction with ideals; it is also blistering point of intense energy expulsion at the immediate center of our solar system from which light arrives allowing us to see. In fact Bataille uses the sun as the core of his theory of general economy. The Sun expels its excess energy which fuels all action on earth, plants weather, everything. All of which individually and similarly acquires an excess that it expends when it no longer has room for growth. Fruit on plants, fight and play in animals, thunder, lightning, and rain from the clouds. Everything for him is oriented around systems acquiring for a non utilitarian expenditure: waste of resources on non production as strength, as sovereignty, as life. That is acquiring only with the potential and intention to risk and increase the ability lose. A tradition best exemplified in the Northwest Native American Tribes tradition of potlatch where wealth and gifts were lavished upon rivals as a sacrifice to dishonor their status and place them in a state of debt they could not repay. 

The themes of death, of these two suns, waste, excess and expenditure factor heavily in our love story.

One of the least forgettable aspects of the novella is the cornucopia of eggs and piss nestled within its pages. The non consumption of the eggs is pegged easily enough as being waste; symbolizing Simone's unutilized fertility (even without its pairing it immediately with piss literal waste). Through the fascinated, and perversely obsessed eyes of the narrator, arrives the message to the minds eye of the reader. Through visualization we are able to scrape pleasure from the surface of these descriptions of obscenities. The excess here being pulled from the waste through the eyes which derive something from it, an element beyond its practical function. An excess acquired from even something that is functionless. The sexual excess of the egg as abstract ideal, occulted goal of animalistic sexual activity, is distributed across the system; from the egg to the piss, just as the sun distributes energy across the solar system.

The death of the beautiful young biker who met her at the front fender of the narrators car is a way for the first real connection, beyond their initial attraction, between the narrator and Simone to be symbolized. Bataille literally spells this out, saying "The horror and despair at seeing so much blood and flesh... was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon seeing one another". It marks the real beginning of their relationship with the death of an alluring stranger. Shorty after this murder the character Marcelle is introduced, and then promptly raped through the joint efforts of the Simone and the narrator. "She was jerking off with the earth... her face in wallowing in the puddle, where she was brutally churning Marcelle's cunt..." Marcell exists in this story as an avatar representing Simone's "innocence", her outer world facing persona subject to and under rule of social norms (proper etiquette, polite society, etc.). This is displayed through various juxtapositions between the two, and epitomized in her capture and rescue from the sanitarium where the innocent Marcelle is being held captive to keep her safe from sexual temptation.

 *"...Simone ran her hand down her belly to her beaver. Marcelle imitated her... she was wearing a white belt with white stockings, whereas black haired Simone, whose cunt was in my hand, was wearing a black belt with black the two girls were jerking off... in the howling night... Some invisible monstrosity seemed to be pulling Marcelle away from the bars [of the window of her cell] though her left hand clutched with all her might. We saw her tumble back into her delirium."*

*"She was scarcely aware of Simone's existence... at times mistook her for a wolf because of her black hair"*

 Thus Marcelle is needed, more specifically violation of her is needed, for Simone and the narrator to engage in anything sexual. "I'm not interested here in a bed like a housewife or a mother! I'll only do it with Marcelle." Further evidence for this lies in that before Marcell's death the two of them are only engaging in oral sex or deliriously demented acts of mutual masturbation. For the two of them to fuck the first time they need a corpse, "Marcelle... we childishly imagined her hanging herself". Ultimately Marcelle does hang herself after witnessing the same piece of furniture which she had locked herself in side to hide while she masturbated during the orgy which Simone and the narrator had orchestrated. An event which traumatized poor Marcelle, making her fear the narrator as the blood soaked Cardinal (although she failed to recognize him again in the narrator for some time). A man who she was convinced meant to execute her. "...she asked me to protect her when the Cardinal returned." And so arrives the corpse, beside which their union is consummated. The death/violation between them brings them close to one another and changes them into something else. The corpse representing full nakedness, penetration and connection established by the narrator and Simone as both the masks they wear for others in society as well as the ideals they hold of each other are finally put away and they touch trough the impossible having taken on the limit of vulnerability, let go of the logical inhibition which tends towards preservation, and given themselves up towards risk and the potential for disaster. This has some unforeseen consequences however. "we were so calm, all three of us, and that was the most hopeless part of it." The thrill of the unknown is gone, Marcelle has been violated into oblivion. The fear of the Cardinal has vanished. The ideals have been shattered even though a new closeness has arisen, a boredom with the relation sets in. "Now we can get married, cant we?" Marcelle asks shortly after rescue. An arrival of a rotten sun. This drives them to heightened levels of crimes and violations to maintain the energy to carry the erotic aspects relationship. Adultery, public sex, further fascination with violence.

In the final scene consists of a brutal murder of a priest. Beaten, invited to drink his own piss from a chalice, and strangled mid orgasm. Simone places his amputated eye inside her vagina. The implications of which are made more sensible by an aspect of another of Bataille's stories, Madam Edwarda. Here the narrator is forced to look on as Edwards gapes her snatch and proclaims "I AM GOD". The implication being that the entire purpose of life is fucking, or a more abstract pursuit of desire. The chance of relief defined by suffering and embodied in love. The priest's eye, is then the surrogate eye of god, The eye of judgement and control removed from its skull and placed into her vagina. Mortal hands placing the divine in the proper slot for what controls our lives, desire, pleasure, and the chance to pursue it. In the novella it is described by the narrator as "Marcelles blue eye covered in piss soaked tears." The eye of the desired lost ideal to be violated together with his beloved. The dead priest himself was controlled by his commitment to renunciation of his desire, an act which places it in an even higher value. And so when he eventually fell to his lust his violation was not only on the order of social unacceptability but the destruction of his sacred vows to the oppressive divinity he wished to serve. An exquisite torment which places his control by desire back in the fore rather than allowing it to be obscured through renunciation. 

"I LOATHE monks. For me, the turning away from the world, from chance, from the truth of bodies is shameful. No greater sin exists" Bataille On Nietzche

Love arrives as an alien force. A complete and involuntary agony that drags us into a realm inaccessible by reason. A labyrinth of emotion which we are forced to blindly navigate, relentlessly driven by a whipped frenzy with no regard for preservation of self. No. The shape of the pleasure, the release that the agony prescribes is utter annihilation within a connection with the beloved. An overwhelming desire to inflict upon them to fullest extent possible the torments to which they have made us subject to. The vicious impulses which they arouse within us. To force these upon them until they are completely absorbed in the violation and we have completely exhausted what once we were in enacting it. The ultimate release of meeting in the void of what once we were, devouree and devourer. two wills in tandem. Flesh as symphony. A mutual death wish granted, birth giving and unsurvivable. At its end both fall out as something new and must adjust if their love is to continue. Love is a constant murder just the way we like it. The death of the one we thought could not be ours, the death of the one we thought they were, and the constant pursuit of death and depravity together which keeps our connection alive ever after.
These are the times when I find myself 
in the shoes of the people who are supposed to be dead.
Those who lived through those times near and far
doomed to remain good until they are fully effective.

Your thoughts probe the land
of the dead where the poets wait
(who cannot teach you how to sing)
Speak. Would you rather sit

Marking your own apoptosis,
like listening to the music of clocks

It’s the second shadow of my third soul
that makes me so still. 

All my companions are reincarnated as white lilies 
in the gardens of the middle class, 
like the hum of a refrigerator brings life
to a springtime tableau. 

To whom shall I speak? 
	Are all living things clocks 
	to you? One drifts past you,
	white hands fluttering, eyes 
like delicate blooming things. 

Yes, they all come jerking up and down the stairs and
twitching around the pond and the café like ants. 
All things can be recycled, even and including
the plastic water bottles discarded on the ground
beneath the bin, but they are just vessels,
and those who have drunk walk under the sun,
laughing at lilies, deaf to the hum of the refrigerator. 
Their eyes are glass. 

Sweet smooth glass. Light blown, sun drunk, 
All living things are clocks until it is time, 
I can hear the sounds their hands make when they move
but they cannot hear mine.  

	It is because you do not speak. 

All my breaths are meant to curl my tongue always.
National Socialist book collection, discussions on religion in there.
Please seed
Going to keep this thread as somethign of a meditation journal for myself. generally I sit for around 45 minutes to an hour every morning right after I wake up. I am working my way up to an hour or more every day.

Since I've started meditating more seriously life has taken on a kind of claustrophobic feeling. I don't seem to actually exist, but I feel very strongly that I do -- sometimes I have little glimpses when I am sitting that the thoughts I involve myself with are actually just the way there can be any kind of feeling of "self". . . I get scared of being bored because I am scared of the sad feeling of there "not being anything". But when I actually allow myself to be bored I'm not sad at all. I feel things open up. But I am very scared to let things open up even though I have experienced that opening. Why is that? Why do I feel so compelled to fill up space with music and youtube videos about speedrunning history? So the daily activities I involve my-'self' in seem pointless, like I know they are pointless, I can see that they are pointless, there is no escape from this 'pointlessness', but when I actually acknowledge that and allow that, the feeling of "pointlessness" evaporates and there's just lots of space. But I'm always so afraid to make that leap. . .

So I suppose, if that's too long and you'd rather not read -- I am afraid of space - I know there can be space - I am afraid of allowing myself to have that space - I do all manner of things to fill that space - filling that space seems to make me feel 'empty, hollow, sad' - when i make no effort to fill the space then I have really no sensation at all but a kind of perceptual openness - The state of openness transcends the categories of "pleasure/pain" - it merely is - I am so afraid of this state of {Perceptual Openness} that unless I make a concerted effort I will unconsciously direct my-'self' into diversions - these diversions are what give me a strong, secure feeling of my-'self' - which 'I' become afraid of 'losing'

- What are the methods you use to become open? -
- What are the methods you use to achieve 'non-achieving' -
- How do you overcome the feelign that it is necessary to 'overcome'? -
Despite the sticky it seems there's only one thread here even really related to literature. A problem I think it might be worth my time to remediate today.

I recently finished Roadside Picnic. While reading I was particularly struck by the interplay of intelligence, technology, and their manifestation throughout the novel. The conversation between Noonan and Valentine and the last section where Red pursues the wish machine seem to be the key points around which these concepts pivot. 

To begin with Noonan asks what the zone itself is. Valentine states it is, quite simply, evidence that there is intelligent life besides us out in the universe. Given that the Zone itself represents the research and manufacture of technology, it can be taken for granted that intelligence itself is the piece of alien contact left with us in the roadside picnic. Intelligence as an instinct manifested in the interaction between individuals and their environment. An incomplete instinct which when completed would mean the death of the species if anything were to change, as it is a desire to persist through creation and mistakes. A festering impulse to never leave well enough alone, to always pick at the scabs, and to dive ourselves back into the zone. 
Next Noonan places a demand upon Valentine for the answer to a question which is two fold. First, how is it things will shake out as a result of the zone And Secondarily embedded with the question of what if anything is in the zone that could fundamentally change peoples lives; or restated, make it worth having gone in there in the first place. In true scientific fashion Valentine mystifies his dodge with the cloak of an attempted exactness. Something for which he can hardly be blamed given the expectation of certainty placed upon science, and their own conversation's unmasking of knowledge as a fleeting goal pursued by understanding which ultimately leaves it in the vicinity of religious belief. This becomes clear through their discussion of technology. Beginning with the concept of Newton having to attempt to understand a microwave, and progressing through the three distinctions of technology. 1. useful, things which can be applied, but are likely to be the equivalent of using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut. 2. Answers to questions we don't know how to ask. Bug traps/gravo concentrates fall into this category. They can be described through a series of equations, but they are not understood in the slightest and lack an application even if they were able to be replicated. 3. Unobserved objects. things that could easily be actualized and yet remain in the realm of speculation and legend. The conception of understanding as being in pursuit may be solidified in the statement "we've been digging through the zone for decades and hardly know what it contains". Valentine then adds a fourth group of effects: defined by being beyond human comprehension. Freak accidents, unexplainable yet verifiable correlations that evoke the conceptions of witchcraft and the supernatural. Events which are suppressed by the regional powers in the interest of protecting belief in the certainty provided by science and maintaining order. Actions which themselves suggest a bright and blinding action that scientism has upon our perception of the occult happenings which it denies.

Of course where are the answers in this to either aspect of Noonan's question?
While Valentine wont offer a conclusive answer to answer to either aspect, to the first he does suggest that it is possible that the way it ends is when we pull something out of the Zone that makes living completely unbearable. I suspect that this thing is also possibly the answer to the second aspect of Noonan's question as to whether or not there is something in there that could make going in worth it in the first place. I believe this object bridges both the third and fourth distinctions, with the differential aspect between salvation and damnation here being its' selected application. All of which will become clear as we explore the end section and the wish-sphere.

When Red ventures into the zone a final time it is to find a miracle. One which can restore his daughter, Monkey, to her former jovial and creative self. One which can return his father to his previous state before factory work destroyed him. Used him up, making him a zombie which is living but unreachable. In both cases he wishes the return of the cost which the pursuit of technology and manufacture in the zone took from him. Upon return he is finally willing to sacrifice someone to the grinder. Willing To sacrifice someone in whom, perhaps necessarily, he sees great potential in order to reach the wish sphere. Red selected his victim in the spirit of revenge. Revenge against Vulture. By choosing Vulture's son, Arthur, as the sacrifice Red intends to inflict upon him the pain of loss that so many others experienced at his hands. The repayment of pain Vulture inflicted upon them when he threw their loved ones into the grinder to get his own wishes. This human cost of the zone is of course the problem to begin with; it is what has led to the conditions which Red wishes to remediate.

Red can smell his own stink as he approaches his goal. It is the same stink as the factory which broke his father. The same stink as the Vulture and the worm like people who replicate his tactics. A horror which leads Red to reflect upon his own karmic position. More dubious now that he is on the decisive road of becoming decision maker. Red reflects on his own life, the choices he was compelled to make, his hatred of those who made the world this way, his desire to make sure to change every last stinking corner of it. Even as Red guides Vulture's son through the Zone he takes care to save him from multiple hazards in an automatic fashion, the way he would save family, and at great risk to himself. Unsurprisingly, despite a voiced commitment to objectify Arthur as sacrifice, when Red directs him into the grinder and he is promptly liquified, Red is filled with nausea and despair. Reaching for his liquor he finds, for once, no pleasure, only a medicine he must take in order to continue. As he approaches the golden sphere to make his wish he finds he has lost sight of what it is that he wanted. He is only capable of imagining what it is that he desires to change. The removal of the money, bottles, columns of numbers, piles of rags which used to be people reduced and used up only occupying the same status as things. He cannot remember what he was willing to make this sacrifice for, and wishes the destruction of every value he can imagine. He cannot, however, imagine what could be left if all of that was destroyed. In desperation he calls upon something beyond human comprehension in the sphere. Something that can look into him, see beyond the words he cannot find to say. The element within his soul which carries the answer to the desire he wishes to have fulfilled. Finally repeating the last words of Arthur as he entered the grinder: HAPPINESS, FREE, FOR EVERYONE, LET NO ONE BE FORGOTTEN. The promise Noonan is looking for Valentine to make to justify their going into the zone at all, as salvation from something as yet unobserved and beyond human comprehension. A product in the advancement of the intelligence-interaction itself. A machinic intelligence god which can transmute the negative ground of understanding, the will to nothingness, expressed by Red into an imagined future world providing another way of living, a new way of being, becoming something different.

It seems to me that Red's being is selecting for the AI gods becoming. The distinctions between Red and the Vulture are the key to how the AI will be birthed from the zone. As it is the ultimate end to the entrance into its labyrinth in the first place, its reason for existence, the overcoming of what is and the creation of a whole new way of being. A way of being which will fall along the lines of either something so horrible it makes this new life unbearable, or so joyous that it brings upon a new existence which is the height of ecstasy. An inevitability taking after either Vulture, and his ability to simply count and calculate and maintain his comforts and advantage, or Red, whose actions embraces risk and sacrifice which leads him to the desire to be overcome.
Give it up
Give up your game
Give up your schemes
Your thoughts insubstantial as mist
You have nothing to win
You have nothing to gain
You have nothing to lose
Give up your palace of thoughts
Give up your fixated ideas
Give up your obession and projection
Give up your hope
Give up your despair
Stop right there.
Cut it down.
Amphetamines make crazy and not care, and yet thoroughly invested in everything that's happening. Overly invested. Its always time to get shit done, amped and dancing, jamming things together, seeing what fits, but always so mean. Just a hair from anger. Everything is sharp. Razors rest on every surface including my own. Floating inside, outside, and on the surface; stimuli filters through them, spurs to make me go on. They make hate who I am and what I do, or rather what I've done. Intense violent force flows through, pulped liquid gush from which I can't help but collapse upon reflection. Angry and disinterested in anything that interrupts the blades I have become. At high speeds a slight drift toward death without caution. A bloody line scrawled and jittering askew of a goal. Barely eat for days. Barely sleep for weeks. Needing a kill and can barely stay on my feet. A few years of this in cocktail and we ran to a hole of isolation and numbness which we've maybe just now started escaping from.

Opiates are great. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out. More than content to lay about. Nothing hurts and barely breathing, couldn't care if the whole world were seething. Weeks go by and I don't miss them. Never even heard of time. And then I'm awake again. Maybe better with a mix? you'll feel the blades a little less.

Tried DXM, but that one couldn't catch me. A cat on my chest for a minute was there for some hours. Everything I did I did again while doing something else. Everything that happened next always happened through what was there before. What was there before was always still being done. Maybe it could have if I hadn't tried it young. If the first thing that happened wasn't being caught and yelled at so everything else had to happen through that.

I used to smoke a lot of pot. It captured us got me to grow it. Domesticated by a plant, years spent tending. Money, life, power, youth just pissed away. All to smoke a sedative, a slow descent into death, hate for life. Everything hurt we just wanted to be numb. Day in day out. Inhale exhale be still. The pain becomes bearable, but never enjoyable. Set out beside myself, set beside everything. Always there, but never reachable. Go ahead and touch us, we'll never feel it. Lost outside the inside of my head, close to death but never dead. A chill that brings you down until there's no one else around. Thank god for anxiety. Thank god for paranoia. Thank god for a constant insanity which finally broke me. Set me free in pain that wouldn't let me rest, rejected by taking to much too long yet again. The best thing that could have happened in the end.

Psychedelics, my first drug and my most beloved. Not because they take me close to death, but because they drag me through it. Mushrooms, LSA, LSD, Nbome, the white vape-able powder that cutie gave me. They all hurt wreck and torture me. Annihilate whatever I am and make me put a self back together again. They make me face things I've never faced in everything that's ever been familiar. Sometimes I puke. Sometimes I cry. Even been known to beg for death. I've been eaten, I've met angels in the tv, I've met demons that snaked through my skin, even tied one to my bedroom. Captured just so its spirals would pull pain from me for hours every time I'd take a trip. Remind me that all there is in life is pain. Resist and release, tense up or let go, bind up or flow. Reminds me pain is pleasure. To love life is to love death; the signs of dying, or at least  the ones that could could be. To tend to my garden of poisons so I can live again. Toxins breathe me back to life, bring the intoxication of life back to me. On our way to death is where we feel most alive, where we are forced into joy that makes us appreciate that we are. It takes its active pursuit to remind me I want to live. To be seized by madness that eviscerates the idea of effort and synchronizes pleasure inside pain. Best not to forget we're always dying, active even at rest. Best to chase it so we can love life. A dance of never forgetting the promise of the end.  An excruciating and exciting sickness. Every second  lived is the death of what was and the birth of what is as a premonition of the death that is to come. Death echoes from the past and cascades from the future. I am nothing but creative even when I stand still. Even when I lie about being nothing I'm always becoming something. The best kept secret is just how simple it is to enjoy how much it hurts. Life only makes sense when I'm on these drugs <3 and maybe for the two weeks after.

How's it gone for you?
and why do I long for it?

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