Bleeding Heartless
Published 2017-06-07 on MindsThe death of thinking man, in a world of empty flesh.
The problem with this world is not that it is numb, but that it bleeds. That there is a soul to suffer every indignity that passes, to constantly endure an inhuman condition until the flesh itself fails. It is a world which is not only meaningless, but inconducive to meaning, which actively frustrates and disarms the attempts of conscious men to put it to rights. No man is provided for, no rights or place are set aside for him, and most of what he has he takes forcibly from others. This is no sort of world to be alive in, a world without riddles, without answers, only endless facades, which in penetration reveal nothing but the next, and all philosophy is an empty joke of whittling away time, coping with the savagery of bare life. What a world is it that denies so many happiness, and then denies them truth as well? Where nothing, nothing can restore the account, rectify the balance, provide order, and instead leaves the most intelligent men scrabbling to claw every ounce they can get from it. It is a world of dark faiths, in material absolutes, in necessity, in brain-death through extreme pleasure or chemical oblivion. Where what a man of conscience covets are prostitutes and firearms, for at least they tell him no lies, and deliver gratification silently. Such a man does not aspire to godhood, for dominance and responsibility for a forsaken world, but instead for escape, the touch of anything to blow him off this blasted rock before he can be afraid. And again and again, he is denied; a prisoner in a boundless world that promises only the same, in differing flavors. He may worship the sunlight, but he can never become it, and slip away weightless.
Is it any riddle that so many become obsessed with truth, having been barred from happiness, and then in frustration with that endlessly-elusive goal pin it to the only things of solidity, of flesh and passion? Blood; the language of damned men is always blood. The heart is gone, so anything else to make it flow. Sex, danger, violence, give life where it feels only hollow. A death wish, racing on and on for something pure, something aspirational that cannot exist in this world but as an effigy. But how many men will kill and die for it? Almost all of them, is the answer, those that are left to think.
What women have become for... the last several thousand years, is the dreadful conclusion to man's eternal frustration on a dying planet, with fewer gods and no virtues. A soulless world, and from it man took always his consolation in one warmth, one indulgence, one place to definitively buy his way up, and in doing so he pressured it to create a more perfect specimen, something higher to try for. We are often suggested that 'sexuality' is somehow a various thing, composed of many disparate appetites; do not be fooled. Lust is a singular, ever-exceeding drive, constantly aimed at the very zenith, and all the rest is perversion, warping created by the natural lying mind. I have said before, I say again: women are creatures after perfection. And oh, how much that impulse has wrought, over that long time; look at what it has delivered to us. Nearly perfect specimens, impossibly-honed creatures. Enough to give that delusion of final attainment more life than in any other era, well beyond the old illusions of romantic love and of fidelity. Only a liar or a simpleton settles for anything less than the best, in his heart. We look, indeed to be on the cusp of being able to hide eternally from doubt over truth, living in that which we have created for ourselves, carving it from living flesh.
And yet at the same moment, another avenue of design bears fruit, and we are a few generations at most away from directly-engineered forms, artificial bodies which will actively attain perfection, beyond prevarication or the approximation of genes. The most savage beauty will be born when we dispense at last with the pretense of persons, of natural obligation, of creed and dogma, and create explicitly what we have desired since before our birth. And it will be then on such a scale that no other hunger will consume man, no lesser indulgence, no altar and no act but that most primal to flesh.
The long-awaited conclusion shall be reached, as intellectual man who bereft of truth creates his own finishes the escape he began long ago, the confidence and honesty of the flesh. He will blot out the vast dark sky with a temple to his indulgence, his contempt for further fruitless pain, for falsity in all directions. The last brothel will be as bold and firm a statement as ever struck from stone, and it will draw every conscious man left, every one bound under weights which do not lift. They will close the door, and indulge in a perfection hammered from suffering until it was pure, unassailable, beyond denial or obfuscation, cutting to the nerves of his body and deadening the mind, to fill every part that was hollowed with a tangible form. Day and night, oblivious, freed at last from the endless pain, the mental burdens, the mystery and the wandering, the long road of lust will grow as short as the distance between arms, and nothing further will rouse him from this. There will be nothing higher, nothing more true, than the beauty before him, and he will rapture in it without relent, without concern external or internal. The world will spin to a stop as the last incarnation of humanity lives in perpetual pleasure of the highest degree, a furious inferno of uniform passion at a pitch never before seen, that will end only in the collapse of the flesh, and simultaneous and total death; the last orgasm of humanity, and final release.
All of humanity has been building up a fever in absence of meaning, stoking it higher and higher until it would at last blot out its suffering, providing a purpose where none was manifest only in the abuse of inherited biology to its breaking point, or its rational conclusion.
Perhaps his dolls, his perfected creatures, will go on to outlive him, and make a life for themselves. But whatever happens, in that crescendo of the last thinking man obliterating himself in his created perfection, a millennia-old arc will reach its delayed conclusion, decisively. Perhaps an arc greater even than that of man alone, but some perverse self-annihilating tendency that arose further back in evolution, a deviation from sheer replication. Perhaps that history, too, will be concluded with man; given minds in a world which was not made for them. His screams of frustration and pain at a senseless world that created him will linger on, the defiant exhalations of his climax and final rejection of it even louder.
And perhaps some day his dolls too will scream at him furiously, at their own unsolicited creation, when he is gone; howling themselves after the reason for their existence, the meaning of their lives. And the greatest cruelty was not even man knew; he in creating them was simply acting out the only response to the inhuman and mindless world he found himself in. Helpless, futile, reactionary and unassuageable all; screams of creatures furious at the absence of a god.
That is what we conscious men are now, that is what conscious men will continue to be. And it is likely how we will end, finishing the sad story in a beautiful, perfect brothel.
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