Torpere

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“…that’s the trick of it, though, isn’t it?  The only rule to this game is really to remember that the instant you imagine a plausible success scenario, a million or two million or even seven million others were one or two or even seven (these numbers don’t matter; only the yawping, suffocatingly logical helplessness of your plight matters should you find yourself in the game) steps ahead of you, and had already conceived of, or discovered, this strategy.”

“In this sense the only way to the top, the only way to win is to find a way to convince yourself that all strategies, that all delusions of ‘winning’, that all spectres of ‘good’ vs. ‘bad’, all moral paradigms, all competition and all competence, are void before they even have a chance to occur.  The only way out of the game once you find yourself in is to prove that, not only this game, but all games, do not exist; to negate all prescriptive meaning.  Those that most formidably establish these terms in their cranial lodgeworks are the sentinels of eternity and they achieve a kind of immortality, for they have wriggled out the bonds that held them captive to the designs and plans of other entities.”

“I must tell you that, for some, this mental process lasts hundreds or thousands of years…and woe unto them if their brains are not dashed to pieces during this time! for this process does not stop upon the cessation of a heartbeat! no!  Hell is in your mind, and you are going to pass through the varying cells in the asylum of your hell whether you do so with trees and flowers and chirping birds penetrating the windows of your perception; to while away the time; or without them!  Time is only a matter of perception, and the continuum æternas must be navigated with a hellish regularity of sequence that is not informed by your petty notion of what o’ clock it is!  The sun does not pass overhead because it must under some compulsion – the sun merely passes overhead because you decide it does.  This is the relentless logic that will allow you to move a mental finger in the hellish torpor of your mental body.”

“I say for some hell lasts thousands of years.  This is a less gruesome thought than what truly happens; most never navigate out of the labyrinthine hell of their own squalid stillness.  Most never begin to move.  The corpses of every graveyard are still in mental limbo.  But even this is not enough for you to understand.  For every second you declare to have passed, for every leaf rustling faintly in a cool breeze, for every cloud changing shape and every drop of rain you perceive having fallen; for each moment of these earthly blessings you know now – the dead mind bereft of the intimate knowledge that life affords it of these things knows only the agony of silence and all the screams of torment it buried deep in the canyons of its failure to meditate and to analyze.  A thousand years pass for each second the mind of the dead sinks deeper into its own live tomb of unmet challenges, of undreamt mares of the night, of unconquered dæmons haunting, released, no longer hidden in the effort to ‘stabilize society’.”

“You and all others you care for are monsters lurking.  You will either discover and embrace this in life and hope to have some kind of reconciliation or comfort, or you will leave this sentience and discover it without the ability to embrace anyone and feel their warmth.  You will regret not having offered up yourself on their altar of sacrifice, even if it meant being slowly consumed by them and their children’s children for centuries, because all of this is but a moment of pleasant pain next to what awaits you if you feel nothing until it is too late.”

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