I’ve been reading a lot of old pessimist philosophy recently.
Some old cosmic horror and apocalyptic stuff as well. Mostly from the 20th and 21st century.
Honestly, it all seems pretty optimistic now. With all servers down, no new platforms or apps,
no new augmentations or VRs, no new shows, movies, videos, or any other forms of content, I spend
most of my time between an abandoned, still mostly untouched antique bookstore in downtown and the
variety of spots I like to read at around the city. I know all the best, abandoned homes, and
currently, my favorite thing to do is just bounce around between them, spending a week in one here,
another week in one there–almost like a continuous vacation through the rotting corpse of the city.
There aren’t nearly enough people left to properly oversee and control all the abandoned property,
so even though it’s sort of frowned upon, it’s pretty much a free for all without problem. At
least so long as you stay clear of certain areas. Today, I was reading a book called The Trouble
with Being Born by a writer named Emil Cioran. According to the back of the book,
he lived sometime in the late 1900s. It’s quite a good book in my opinion. I like the writing style.
What stood out to me the most, though, is how 200 years ago, he wrote lines like the following:
”Man will not last. Ambushed by exhaustion, he will have to pay for his too-original career. For
it would be inconceivable and contra naturam that he drag on much longer and come to a good end.”
and, “The further man proceeds, the less he is in a position to solve his problems,
and when, at the apex of his blindness, he will be convinced he is on the point of success,
then the unheard-of will occur.” Reading people’s thoughts and predictions about how the world could
have been, should have been, or what they believed it would inevitably be, is not only
really fascinating but also weirdly comforting. Knowing that I know now what some of the greatest
minds in history could only fear or speculate about, makes me feel almost like I am above them.
It’s my favorite literature to read: both those who wrote about high hopes for the future,
and those who had grim, morbid views of it. Of course, only Cioran, and other pessimists and
nihilists who shared similar views, writing about catastrophic and apocalyptic themes,
at least got the premise of the plot right. Ironically, though, as I’ve been reading more
and more pessimistic, fatalistic, and nihilistic philosophers, I’ve begun to
consider the possibility that, in hindsight, if these sorts of ideas were taken more seriously by
a greater portion of the general public–that all of humanity is afflicted; incompetent and absurd;
and that there is no grand point, nothing to be won, nothing to be known or reconciled at the
end of everything–in an alternate universe, it seems at least possible to me that these
thinkers would have actually been wrong about the final, major plot point of humanity’s collapse.
Based on how things transpired, theoretically, it isn’t that humanity’s fate was necessarily
inevitable demise, but that since humanity could never sufficiently realize this was
the track of fate it was on, it could not stop it. Humanity could not see that it was on a
train headed towards a wall, so it just kept shoveling more and more coal into the engine.
Of course, part of its fate was that it could not realize this,
but in an alternative universe, if it had, obviously things may have been different.
In truth, I don’t believe we, or at least I, can even conceive of a life where the
train stops moving. Especially by our own accord. Even now, with mostly all bets off,
with a world in shambles, and the vast majority of the species gone,
I still want to try. I still want to progress forward and start anew. Most of us do. What
could it even mean to stop trying, to give up, to lay down the torch of progressive forward
movement? Stagnation and resignation go against the very thing that we are, the very thing we
were made by and will continue to make and destroy from. We were pre-written to progress
and synchronize with the forward motion of this exploding, destructive universe. And so, progress
is what we did, and progress is what we will inevitably continue to do for as long as we are.
Nothing makes it clearer than this, though, that humanity does not own itself.
What self-owning, self-knowing species would progress towards its own disintegration?
We are played like puppets by some unknown force of existence that scripts and runs the
show. Religions called it god. The philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer called it the will to live.
Friedrich Nietzsche referred to it as the will to power. In psychology,
one could argue it was referred to as the unconscious or subconscious. Philosophers and
scientists of all different ages have described and called it all sorts of different things.
What it is, how it is, and why it is is likely unknowable to humankind. However, what it does
is potentially knowable. In the same way that we can’t know how or why a snake fundamentally
exists, but we can know that it slithers around and swallows its prey whole, so too can we know
what the underlying will or force of existence does in relation to the apparent material world.
In my assessment, being appears to persist through a process of what I would call positive
annihilation: a continuous, increasingly complex cycle of self-creation for self-destruction: the
will to annihilate. Everything that has, does, and will exist seems to operate through this process.
Each individual living thing is born to die. Each species is made to eventually surpass or destroy
itself, or be extinguished by some external force of the universe. The universe itself, as a whole,
was seemingly created to end itself, arriving out of nothingness, moving only forward through time,
decaying through entropy, and finally, arriving at its final destination of some sort of heat death,
returning back to nothingness once again.
It’s easy to forget that what happened at the beginning of everything–the
big bang–is still underway right now. The universe is still, at this very moment,
expanding and decaying in a continuous explosion towards total self-annihilation. And we are made
out of this. We are this explosion, particles and debris made from it, manifested embers
unavoidably contained within the process of burning existence into its final ethereal ash.
In the context of human experience, the manifestation of this will to annihilate
can be summarized as follows: desire to act or improve, (positive) action or creative
efforts to improve, necessarily destroying or negating some previous state in the process,
unforeseen negative consequence of said action(s) and/or a new state of dissatisfaction and boredom,
and then repeat, over and over. Humanity calls this progress, which it is,
but progress, inescapably attached to time and being, only moves according to the nature of both:
time moving forwards and being towards entropy or self-annihilation. In broad sense,
this can be observed in both the individual and collective. The history of both one’s own life as
well as the history of humankind is a continuous process of self-creation into self-destruction.
“Madness, mayhem, erotic vandalism, devastation of innumerable souls - while we scream and perish,
History licks a finger and turns the page.” Wrote Thomas Ligotti.
There is nothing inherently wrong with destruction, annihilation, or nothingness.
And as an extension, there is nothing inherently bad about this process of progress, even if it
is towards self-annihilation. Just like how life would arguably mean nothing without death measured
against it, so too would creation mean nothing without destruction and annihilation to oppose it.
It is the positive-negative contrast at the core of all being that defines and creates all being.
Without it, there would only be nothing. The problem, however, arises in our experience
of the self within this process. In truth, I can say annihilation, death, and nothingness
are not inherently bad in it of themselves, but to each existing conscious human being,
including myself, generally, they are. Or are at least undesirable. Man did not and still does
not want to end, individually or collectively. Which is to say there is an inherent conflict
that arises in the experience of self. If the will of existence operates through a sort of
process of self-creation for self-destruction, and our consciousness is product of and bound to
this process, and said consciousness grants us a qualitative, personal experience of the process,
but the qualitative experience of disintegration and self-annihilation is negative, then the
default experience of self is created with an inherent negative relationship with its being.
There’s a squirrel scurrying around the roof of a rotted out shed in the backyard
of the forsaken home I’m writing in right now. There’s a bird perched in a tree just next to it.
And there’s a bug on the glass of the window that I’m looking out through. Every day, these and all
other non-human animals go about living with no conscious concern over their ontology. They have
no concern with the old or new world order, or lack thereof. They have no concern for improving
or progressing or taking over the world from here. They have no interest in saving themselves
or the planet. And they generally don’t cause any problems that would require it. But we did.
All other non-human animals live, not without conflict, but without exasperating conflict.
A human cannot help but admire and envy this about them. It is arguably why we adore them so much.
Even those that would maul us at the instant of getting too close. And yet, at the same time,
most of us, including I, if we are being honest with ourselves, don’t wish to be any of them.
If given the option, I would not choose to be a squirrel, nor a bird, nor a bug, nor any other
animal, for it would be the relative equivalent of wanting to no longer be alive. I wish to be
like them, however, free from the conscious tick to endlessly desire and prefer something else.
But still, I do not wish to be them. Of course, this is a contradiction. I cannot be like them
if I am me, who is not like them. Only since I am conscious, can I prefer to be like that
squirrel on the roof, but only because I prefer in this way, can I never be like that squirrel.
And I believe the contradiction illustrated here is a sample manifestation of the conflict between
the self and the will of being. I prefer or desire that which my consciousness does not
permit me to ever experience or attain: the elimination of preference and desire.
“All striving comes from lack, from a dissatisfaction with one's condition, and is
thus suffering as long as it is not satisfied; but no satisfaction is lasting; instead,
it is only the beginning of a new striving.” wrote Arthur Schopenhauer. I am caught in the
paradox of wanting to not want, desiring not to desire, trying to not try, knowing to unknow.
For some reason, despite all of this, despite the seemingly unavoidable conflict of being and the
likely impossibility of resolution, I still want to try to resolve it. I want to see it through,
while there is something left to be seen. Perhaps it is the context of a broken-down world with a
fairly clean slate to start and rebuild from. Perhaps it is the inclination to form something
else in the wake of the prior. Perhaps it is the will to annihilate carrying itself out through me.
Whatever the case, there are not many of us left, but for those of us who are,
if we are to have any hope, I believe this new time is in desperate need of a new kind
of philosophy. A philosophy that harmonizes with the premise that we are and have always
been impossible victims to ourselves. Not merely to each other, but our own self.
I am not sure if humanity will survive long enough or well enough to begin any new projects for
itself, but if it does, if humanity is to hold on, if it is to make use of its second chance,
of its continuation, it must attempt to first free itself of all its delusions.
It must, from the very foundation, understand the total implications of its conflicting,
contradictory, and poorly serving relationship with its self, its consciousness, and the world.
A new philosophy must hold and comfort us outside the whirlpool of our consciousness and not push
us any further under. It mustn’t pose nor seek answers, mustn’t provide resolutions
nor desire for improvement, mustn’t declare doctrines for how to live nor rationales for why,
but rather, aid and comfort us all in the potential and likely impossibility
of successfully achieving any of the above. A philosophy that finds resolution, reconciliation,
and eternalness in the absence of needing any. A philosophy that, somehow, consoles us.