“It was in this spiritual twilight, quick contact with the living lights in the sky, all living and alive. It is said that some stars are dead but maybe their light is a necessary blackness, not so much a retreat from sight but a more vivid being in the very depths of conscious being. This death drive, death instinct, the pleasure of being profoundly lost to another, is another way of saying: I am found to myself. This mania, this delirium of the night which we all titillate ourselves with my the wistful looking upwards, O I could never quite understand this wistfulness. Perhaps a territorialization of the night, a facade of surrender, when we would truly be looking at the empty spaces. It is not the brightness of the stars that releases light, but the blackness, infinite withholding of the night, of the cosmic black. Radiance is cause of sores and worn ankles toiling in the bracken earth, you cannot say so much for it as the keen breath of twilight’s fresh air. These perplexing moments, those of shared wistfulness, but really a splendid voicing of what is libidinal; if you have ever been on the receiving end of the perpetual night, uncoiling into itself, revealing light as a notoriety, a kind of bereavement of silence, then you will ache to know that these creatures of light are twisting like so many hungry chlorophyll, merely grasping with a sort of vested desire, a visceral need of life, of the life that only derives from light, even if it were the lamplit concrete below, it would suffice for those whose gains are to see their own solidity, their own self-idolatry. No, not this ray of powerful light, but the unfolding of dark matter and the ether, the in betweens, the tiny causalities of movement and light. O, to get beneath, to not stutter out platitudes, metaphors, signs and images of a desired thought, a thought which does not edge towards the schizophrenic. But without night, we would not for one moment be able to clarify the thoughts that we have, falling into waking hallucinations, the over-abundance of images and self-reflection that comes from this thick, cerebral matter. Time, rather, to celebrate the thin escape of the soul, which we know we all have, and refuse to blurt it out, as if it were a contamination of order, of the idea of a mutually understood territory. And yet the territories now become blank, articulate to the point of sterility, the language we use territorializing over the language that insists beneath the surface. Phrases such as genetic modification, repeating triumphs of the intelligence piercing matter, but not finding itself any more intelligence. Intelligence that stems from matter, finds its access in this substance, this perpetually cut through being. The true, the triumphant, the actual, the verity of a thought that has civilized life. Nothing of it. This death, this blackness, is not necessarily a positive force, but a well from which we must make a return. In order to understand that to be shot through, contaminated, to bring into fruition the multiple, the release; this is the necessity. No theory, no boundaries; the only thing we were lacking was the ability to form such a consciousness that would be capable of both rendering joie de divre and the death instinct patently absurd. The hard surface an atrocity, the pierced through a travesty, what else is there to say that if the plane of consistency for being can be evolved, that our means of being without having, but without releasing ourselves from the mortal coil at the very gravest moment of desperation.

Let’s neither be idealists nor tragedians.

Author: blackadiaphane on Tumblr.

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