Negatif.

There are things I do that you don’t understand, things I say that you don’t understand, there are also the things I don’t do and don’t say because I don’t understand.

I cannot write you something sweet, touching or whatsoever without having to extract from Byron or Balzac, without watching a romantic movie.

Because love and affection is not my genre.

I would love to deliver poetry of my feelings towards you, I really would, I would love to write you a bunch of sweet stuff and tell you how much I appreciate you and all that you do for and with me but I cannot.

I can extract life into critique and fiction, but what I cannot do is present life as it is without having a disgust for the entirety of life, and living, as a whole.

But I want you to know that everyday, I do my best to make up for everything I haven’t done, which I should have done, the past few months to make you happy.

I’m sorry, and I love you.

Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past—they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows—Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow?—What are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs: the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing—the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young—yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers:
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which coloured all his objects;—he had ceased
To live within himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother—but no more; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honoured race.—It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why?
Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
III
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned:
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere
With a convulsion—then rose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The Lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved; she knew—
For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
IV
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,
Glad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed with One
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold!
Upon her face there was a tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.
VI
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The Starlight of his Boyhood;—as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then—
As in that hour—a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced—and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been—
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light;
What business had they there at such a time?
VII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love;—Oh! she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret.—Be it so.
IX
My dream is past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality—the one
To end in madness—both in misery.

- Lord Byron, The Dream, 1816.

Prognosis Invalid.

Ah Christmas, Hare Krishna, coming of the Sun (son), Winter Solstice, that’s just the minor perplex of the whole astrological sequence. But it can be better explained in the latest edition of Zietgeist.

But it was an all round good Christmas, honestly, one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had, no trouble with the family or the law, but well, there was that minor speed bump when I messed it a little, but I fixed it.

I’m sorry my temper gets the better of me, and it does, and when it does, I get crazy under control, cause at least I didn’t break anything in the house this time.

So eclectic lapses in my medulla oblongata aside, I think Sherlock Holmes honoured Sir Arthur in an acceptable manner, also paying homage to the creator of all detective novels, Edgar Allan Poe.

Thus, the end is nigh, I really have no idea what to type on, so I will cut it right here.

Oh, by the way, remember that I love you. 

The misunderstanding of our contradictive friend, nihilism.

So you probably think nihilism is nonchalance, sure, we don’t really care, most of the time in fact, to the point we force ourselves to care, well most of us.

We’re skeptics, we hate humanity, we’re anti-life.

We approach things with question, because to us, there is no bound of reality or realism, there are no absolutes and there is nothing.

We establish meaninglessness because there is a varied perspective to everything.

And our god is not the moustache bound German man by the name of Friedrich Nietzsche, we admire what we want, and Nietzsche shed a light on nihilism and existentialism that many cannot.

I myself admire Buddha and Bakunin.

And I hate people saying that nihilism is the definite “I don’t care”

Well, bad news, everyone does not fucking care, but that does not make everyone a fucking nihilist does it?

I express my disgust for religion and I am hated by it but that does not make me an anti theist does it?

Well, too bad, as a nihilist, I DO FUCKING CARE.

I care about post humanism, and I care about biomechanical development.

I care about my girlfriend and my family, I care about my dog, I care about my dead spider, I care about everything that I would want to care about.

So ok, wow, I’m not a nihilist anymore, well, perhaps I should cry and whimper and obfuscate my woes to the world and hate it for telling me what I am or am not.

Well, the thing about me wanting to post this up is that everyone is saying that nihilism is nonchalance, well maybe it is, maybe we don’t want to care because a lot of people are ignorant pricks who only care about the money that goes into your pocket, so you can buy all your symbols of vagrant status.

I don’t fucking care if you can buy an expensive car, or pretend to go to England when it’s actually Chijmes you’re at(this point is directed at someone who thought they had me fooled, gosh good one, really pulled my leg from the hip it did).

So I aggressively expand into an outburst of human emotion and lament my sorrows of how people treat nihilism as a sect for people who don’t give a fuck, well there is already a sect for people like that, it’s called being an idiot, or what have you.

But to me, there is no moral code, bylaws of which control the ebb and flow of the universe, no good, no evil, no ying, no yang, no balance. Balance is not akin to nature, balance is akin to vagary, but nature too depends on balance, and balance does not also affect vagary.

"There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape, but even after admitting this there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself; no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing."- Christian Bale in American Psycho.

Marooned

You can buy into the whole apocalypse thing, you can buy into the 2012 thing, you can buy into the whole global warming thing, but face it, the universe is controlled by money fueled globally by governments who set up industrial and urban institutes that evenly distributes it to people for the mindless exchange of programmed work.

We are no different from a computer program that performs its assigned duties.

Thank the Rockefeller's and the Morgan’s (as in J.P Morgan) for setting up the federal reserve with the leaders of other countries.

Tax on, Tax off.

Thus the day of post-humanism arises, and no, I’m not referring to the crisp text of Nietzsche, nor Kant, nor the Bible, nor your friendly neighbourhood Existentialist.

I’m referring to the day we as humans generate a form of nanotech augmentations that not only lets us live longer and perform far better than anything else, that will barcode us into a matrix of systems under one establishment; where there is only one currency, one authority, and one group of masters of the universe as they clink champagne flutes in unison to their greatest achievement: the control of all human (well, cyborg then) existence.

Your news will be live fed to you, have a biomechanical system that tells you where you are, what direction you’re facing, the temperature, the time, your to-do-lists, the calendar, the note of the day and it is this very globalization that will eventually record your every move, thought, spoken word and every thought of treason, there will be an electromagnetic pulsation that will wring your body back to conformity.

There will then be no room for anarchy, rebellion, freedom.

The very lines of ‘When the Children Cry’ spoken as a motto: “One united world… Under God”

Soon enough, after that, we will evolve out of the whole Y chromosome thing and become a generation of hermaphrodites, an anthropomorphic, asexual breed that will no longer rely on the whole sexual reproduction thing and well, self reproduce.

It is this very quintessential evolution that will augment into a cloning structure, then have our memories uploaded into our future selves, immor-fuckin-tality baby.

And it is this very idea that is fueling my next story, Project Phoenix, but till my other stories are done, this will still be on the draft board.

Fringe science and nanotech brought to you by your friendly neighbourhood Nihilist.