I’ve not got anything good to say

Of late my thoughts have been focused too much on current events and politics. I do not want to write about those things because I think even thinking too much about them can be corrupting to the soul. It would be worth the thought and the corruption if I had any say in the way events unfold, but I don’t and it’s probably for the best because I am not qualified to pontificate and even less to act. But this is why I’ve not written much, the things I’ve been thinking are not good to write.

I am a bad person when it comes to politics, I become far too engrossed by the competing factions and the games they play to take each other down. I find the whole drama fascinating and I get a great deal of intellectual satisfaction from trying to figure out what is going on underneath the surface theatre, from considering who is sincere, who is not, who is outright lying – and in all cases why and how it relates to everyone else. I know the futility of my caring, yet I continue to care. I know that I am not smart enough or knowledgable enough to really judge a lot of things, but if anything that just makes the challenge more interesting. For me it’s a fun intellectual exercise, while for other people it is their lives or their livelihoods. For me the drama is thrilling but for people that are directly effected by it, it must be terrifying. When I was a child I was always so excited by talk of war on television, I sat at the edge of my seat, hoping for escalation, looking forward to the exciting new stories that would come tomorrow. Thrilled and mesmerised while people died, while people were tortured, while homes and businesses and whole economies were destroyed.

I still feel that way. Even though I know it is a terrible way to think and feel. People might say it is because I am spoiled, because I have never really suffered, because I don’t know what war and death and suffering really mean – and they are probably right. Sometimes I wish I could find out, because I don’t want to be evil. I don’t want to feel bloodlust or take pleasure in other peoples suffering – nothing makes me so ashamed about myself as this. It is wrong.

Maybe one day I will find out and regret, maybe I will have to really suffer to find repentance.

But maybe I will never repent – in my heart as opposed to my head – that is what terrifies me. What if I never conquer this part of myself?


Tears Falling

When the family breaks up, the child is alone. He has a mother and he has a father, but his love for his mother induces guilt for the love of his father, and the love for his father bristles painfully due to the protective feelings he has toward his mother. So he is alone. There is only jarring disunity – and the self.

“Why can we not all be one again?” he thinks, “why can we not eat together, sing together, love together – as once we did?”

Must everything fall apart?

Maybe later he tries to resolve the wound by severance altogether. He rejects half of himself and clings to one story about his past. “I never had a father” he says. But the pain is obvious. The wound remains. Every day is a confrontation with that which has been severed. There is no completion without the whole, without mending the broken bond, the self made from two. The more anger at the wound, the deeper perhaps the severance, the more insistent that there must be one to blame, to hate, to expel from the self – to be whole again, but lesser.

Your mother and father lurk within you, and no amount of hate can purge them. There is only one way to heal the wound, to forgive together, love together, eat together once more.

And some wounds will never be healed… only pray and dare to hope that this one is healed, because some wounds, though longstanding and septic, still are.


All empires fall. So far this has always proven to be true. All men die. This has too.

What of Christ? What of the Blood of the Lamb? Of the Resurrection? – hope unanswerable, ridiculous absurdities.

Lev Shestov tells us to believe because it is absurd, of course he was not the first to say so. You wonder how Tertullian would have felt about the decline of Rome. If only Louis Theroux could go back in time and interview those early cultists, humanise them for us, let us understand the mindset that birthed 1800 years of faith.

With the entropy death of the universe weighing down on us, will we have the passion to live as our forefathers? To pursue virtue, truth and justice? Can the end serve us as once the dream of a new beginning did?

“Where now for man?” sighs ennui.

But as you know, there is no such thing as “man” – men will go on, better men than you, they will overwhelm you with their vitality, swallow you whole.

They will pursue virtue, truth, justice – as you pursue warm meals and a bed.

You will survive, but they will give birth to worlds.


You would give anything to have someone to give to. Except your pride, which is the primary obstacle. You wish you could bend at the knee, swear fealty, your hands between those of your lord. You want to belong to someone, to have a purpose, to no longer need to worry about the questions of “what” and “why”. The you could focus your energies on being the best vassal, pour yourself into the “how”, cast off your nihilism – pass it up the chain.

This movement of sentiments is quite opposed to the modern world, the nihilistic insecurity is the price for dynamism and material comfort. And surely you know by now that this is where you belong? You may dream of “spiritual and political certainties” but is there any you would truly take for your own? Would you surrender freedom for comfort, even despite your longings?

All this is human, and the defining issue of our age. You share in your isolation with a world of others, unable to adjust to the world in which “everything solid melts into air” yet equally unable to relinquish it’s benefits. Some day natural selection will deal with this perhaps? Centuries of suicides will whittle away at human psychology and those best adapted will happily breed and consume and continue.

The thought of it horrifies you. “Let misery survive!” you proclaim, “may every moment of anguish bear a thousand sons, may they overrun the earth like the Golden Horde, may the Khanate of the disaffected last a thousand years.”

This hostile prayer of survival brings joy to your primitive blood, it swoons at the thought of conquest and massacres. So you become content, and turn back to your modern life, forgetting whatever it was that provoked these atavistic feelings.


When you were younger you thought madness was almost glamorous in a way. You believed that all great men were somewhat insane, all brilliant art was born of suffering and you wished to be great yourself, to taste that intensity and that unsocial stubbornness that comes with delusion.

You had no craft, but you decided life would be your canvas, and you set about attempting to make yourself the eternal outsider, swirling in chaos.

You tried, you really did, but every time you approached the precipice you withdrew. The warmth, or coldness, of human feeling always drew you back from the solitary world of the maniac. You attempted to force the matter by many means, chemistry, illumination, lack of sleep. None of it was enough, not because it couldn’t be, but because you were a coward, because you never had the heart to finish the thing. You were never fully able to betray life, to truly stand in condemnation of the normal.

And then there she was…

When she came into your life, she showed you real madness. Not the glamour of greatness achieved because or despite of it, but the pure substance, acrid and violent. There was no beauty in it, no softness, only endless terror. She had no special powers, no special charisma – not even the redemption of a quaint eccentricity. Only terror and stubbornness in equal measure, tears and threats of suicide, screaming and noises you never knew the human mouth could utter.

You would do almost anything to free her from her affliction, to ease the pain, end the suffering. That which she regurgitated upon the canvas of life should never have seen the light of day. Without poetry, without harmony. Jagged edges, disgust, terror – arranged haphazardly, as though the scribbles of a child.

Those which the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad… and now you sense a twinge of fear. What if it one day happens to you?


You are surrounded by such beauty. Your instinct kicks in, you desire to claim it, to make it part of you. You are what you eat. If you can just take it, make it, become it, have it…

But a cut flower wilts. The beauty is transformed by your all consuming digestion into everlasting excreta.

Transforming everything desirable into self, you carve a path of destruction, and leave a fertile trail of waste in your wake.