Waterways gone Dry (mankind is a cartographer)
When I was very young, working under the assumption that time and space are infinite, I posited that all potential realities must come to pass, over and over and over again, throughout the infinite stretch of time. It seemed impossible to me as well undeniable, and so I co-existed with the notion for many years, unwilling to either expound upon it or dismiss it, and hesitant to ever mention it. When I learned of Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence, which itself is a re-postulation of the ancient cyclical standard of time, I felt appalled and distrusted my own intuitions, how little I could see to admire in his ideas, his ideas so likewise to mine; although I was able to calm myself upon the revelatory suspicion that Nietzsche hadn’t quite understood it after all, or at least not like how I had. I had him pinned. I would write my own Thus Spoke on the subject, an exposition of my own virile intuitions, my philosophical inclinations towards my own cyclical system of observances, and then in the end I will have done good. But I tried, and I had nothing to say on it after all. By the end of my efforts I had moved on to more fruitful ideologies anyway. Perhaps that is how so many great ideas are born; a man simply misunderstands another man’s idea, and the misunderstanding is itself a new idea, tailored to this new socio-psychological figure, this new inertiatic aggregator, automaton of consumption, wizard errant – well, these ideas, they enter new and useless and leave by way of pure mis-understanding an even newer and less useless idea; and on lucky days, the right man has the right misconceptions, and a beautiful new idea awakens… This isn’t quite right, no, I wouldn’t sign my name to it. But it takes ideas to have ideas, and at least I’m an idealist. Goodness is all in the heart, or in the head – in money, or bread, or affection, – else there is nothing of goodness at all. If it’s in the head, I’m blessed – if it’s in the money, I’ll do good – but what of the heart, or affection – and what of that restless, exalting sensation of the total absence of good, the dismissal of the prima facie, the liberating idea of total amoral existence – the great equalizer, equalizing life with not-life, equalizing courage with meekness, success with failure, witness with confessor, writing with typing, typing with shouting, shouting with silence – everything, herein, is as exquisite as it could ever be, if indeed! If indeed – an amoral existential blunder through space and time, time and space, if in they are infinite – what sort of a wonder to ponder is this, what sort of terrible burden to bear! A fiction stint, if anything, and as fiction it’s downright immoral – and if there is such a thing as immorality, then there must also be morality, and in the presence of true morality, the immoral is not to be tolerated – these pages are to burn!