Black Sun

We’re dead! The walking dead! The irrelevants! The inexcusable! The indulged-because-they’re-allowed-to-live.

We volunteer! Cull us now! Or better, let us cull ourselves! We’ll spare you the trouble!

Make suicide efficient and productive. Suicide booths on every street! Euthanasia stations!

Make it simple and we’ll just do away with ourselves. We’ll take ourselves out. We’ll remove ourselves from the equation.

 

We demand the meaning of meaning. We shake the bars of this world – that’s what we do. Cry out. It makes prison no longer seem so bad.

 

Such a sense of having died. Such a sense of never actually having lived. Not for a moment. Such a sense of never having been born. Never actually begun … I think I died long ago. I think I’m a ghost.

 

There’s a darkness in the sun. There’s a black sun within the sun. That’s burning. There’s a sun devouring the sun. There’s a cancer of the sun, devouring the sun.

 

Nothing hates itself like a human being. We’re the uniquely fucked up species, right?

 

Why can’t we just die? Why isn’t it just time to die? Why can’t the end just come?

 

This is not my world. I do not accept this world. I am not who I am. This is not me. These are not my words.

 

How can they bear themselves? How can they go on? How can they be like this? How can they survive, from moment to moment? How does all this go on? This lie? This exuberance? This can-do. This yes I can.

It’s the worst nihilism. Much worse than we are. Than anything we could do.

At lest we’re truthful. At least we don’t try to cover it over with lies. At least we know it’s all fake.

 

We’re defeating ourselves. Our heads are defeating us. We stand in our own way.

If only we could be rid of ourselves … If only we had another chance – another life. To start all over again. Not to have got it so wrong. Not to have taken every wrong turn.

 

Every day, there are new horrors. New … disgraces. New things to loathe. Every day, new reasons for hatred.

 

Sink lower. There’s further to fall. There’s a depth we haven’t reached, not yet.

 

There’s a whole art of giving up. You can be a virtuoso of giving up.

 

We should be shot like mad dogs. Imprisoned! And we should be allowed to hang ourselves in prison. For our own dignity.

 

We can only live against this world. We have to live in the intensity of our hatred. We have to dwell there: in our absolute hatred. In our total opposition of the world – to their world. It cannot be enough for us.

 

The world is too much. There’s too much world in the world.

 

Hatred – that’s what our freedom has contracted into. That’s what it’s become. Some point of negativity.

 

And what we hate is what we have in common. An instinct of hatred toward the same things. An instinct for horror at the same things. A basic flinching – a recoil at the same things. It's what saves us. It’s what keeps us together, in dark times.

 

The same sense of machinery working in the dark. That there are vast and shady … manipulations. Power-grabs and counter power-grabs. Great armies clashing in the dark.

The same sense that there are shifting planes of darkness, that’s all. Powers. Principalities. That we can’t even catch a glimpse of our true rulers.

 

Can we not talk about killing ourselves for a few minutes?

 

You get offered euthanasia for mental disorders in Canada. Why not philosophical ones?

 

We have to kill God in us. We have to close down that dimension of hope. Once and for all! … We need to stop waiting for God to reach out his hand. To uncover his face. We need to accept that no one’s there.

And be happy atheists?

And be unhappy atheists.