Репост из: isolé à l'âme
Inside every man sleeps a prophet, said Emil Cioran, then when he wakes, there is a little more evil in the world. The madness of evangelization has become entrenched in us to the point that it emanates from depths ignorant of the survival instinct.
Everyone is waiting for their moment to suggest something, anything. Everyone has a voice, and that's enough to pay dearly for being neither deaf nor dumb. Everyone spends his criminal generosity from the destitute to the arrogant. Everyone distributes recipes for happiness. Everyone wants to control everyone's footsteps. So, joint life is intolerable, and life with oneself is less bearable: our preoccupation with our own affairs increases when we do not interfere in the affairs of others, turning the “I” into a religion, or denying it as a regressive dialogueist does: we are victims of the cosmic game.
The abundance of solutions proposed to the questions of Being has nothing to match but their sterility. History: a handmade factory of ideals, a capricious mythology, the turmoil of crowds and individuals, a reluctance to imagine reality as it is, a murderous thirst for illusions. The source of our actions lies in a subconscious tendency to regard ourselves as the cause, cause and effect of time. Our pride and reactions turn the piece of flesh and consciousness that we are into a planet.
If we had a better appreciation of our position in the world, if we could not separate between comparing and living, we would be crushed by the discovery of the meagerness of our presence. But to live means to be blind to our own dimensions. And if it is true that all our actions, from breathing to establishing empires or creating metaphysical systems, are derived from an illusion about our importance, then this is even more true of our prophetic instincts.
Who is it that you see trying, fully aware of his own insignificance, to be effective and to stand up as a Savior? A longing for a world without an "ideal", for a dying without belief, for an eternity without life, that is Paradise. But we cannot exist for a second without deceiving ourselves: the prophet in each of us is truly the seed of madness that allows us to flourish in our emptiness. A perfectly conscious and therefore perfectly normal man should have no recourse outside of the nothingness that lies within him.
I imagine hearing him say: “I have been distracted from the goal and from every goal, so I no longer retain anything of my desires and disappointments except for their utterance. I withstood the temptation of perfection and defeated thought, as I defeated life by disgust at searching for a solution."
Everyone is waiting for their moment to suggest something, anything. Everyone has a voice, and that's enough to pay dearly for being neither deaf nor dumb. Everyone spends his criminal generosity from the destitute to the arrogant. Everyone distributes recipes for happiness. Everyone wants to control everyone's footsteps. So, joint life is intolerable, and life with oneself is less bearable: our preoccupation with our own affairs increases when we do not interfere in the affairs of others, turning the “I” into a religion, or denying it as a regressive dialogueist does: we are victims of the cosmic game.
The abundance of solutions proposed to the questions of Being has nothing to match but their sterility. History: a handmade factory of ideals, a capricious mythology, the turmoil of crowds and individuals, a reluctance to imagine reality as it is, a murderous thirst for illusions. The source of our actions lies in a subconscious tendency to regard ourselves as the cause, cause and effect of time. Our pride and reactions turn the piece of flesh and consciousness that we are into a planet.
If we had a better appreciation of our position in the world, if we could not separate between comparing and living, we would be crushed by the discovery of the meagerness of our presence. But to live means to be blind to our own dimensions. And if it is true that all our actions, from breathing to establishing empires or creating metaphysical systems, are derived from an illusion about our importance, then this is even more true of our prophetic instincts.
Who is it that you see trying, fully aware of his own insignificance, to be effective and to stand up as a Savior? A longing for a world without an "ideal", for a dying without belief, for an eternity without life, that is Paradise. But we cannot exist for a second without deceiving ourselves: the prophet in each of us is truly the seed of madness that allows us to flourish in our emptiness. A perfectly conscious and therefore perfectly normal man should have no recourse outside of the nothingness that lies within him.
I imagine hearing him say: “I have been distracted from the goal and from every goal, so I no longer retain anything of my desires and disappointments except for their utterance. I withstood the temptation of perfection and defeated thought, as I defeated life by disgust at searching for a solution."