Last week, through much emotional travail (for reasons I won’t bore you), a curious insight made itself known to me as if the whisperings not of a god, but The. To try to replicate the encounter some two or three days since is proving almost impossible, other than to say that a certain Unconscious Intent that had been quietly animating my own “willful” actions suddenly revealed itself in a dazzling flash – and disappeared just the same, taking with it unconsciousness itself along with any innocence I may have once been able to profess concerning my own “true” motives up to this point.
I had always intended this so-called philosophy to resemble, at least in spirit, a “real” metaphysics, not a work of literary fiction. I now know, however, that over the last nine or ten months I have been the fiction of this silent Unconsciousness: my life, its events and all those who share in it.
As mentioned elsewhere, in order for art to remain as such it cannot be bound by predetermined ends or intentional objectives, at least none beyond the maintenance of its own indeterminate freedom to evolve as it will (an infinitely difficult tack to emotionally maintain). Tragically, awareness of intent ensures that a man will never realize it, at least not in the manner he was expecting, which is to say, “at all”. For the moment the artist declares “I am going to – ” he decides its course and thus kills it as art with the sterility that only rational purpose can inflict.
Thus aware I have been rendering a work of art instead of philosophy, I feel any further attempt to do either would compromise whatever innocent integrity I’ve managed to sustain until now. What is past can remain as such – as art, but not forward.
I will therefore cease my present trajectory starting the week after next, at which time I’ll begin compiling what I have completed into manuscript form, to include a preface, appendix, and so on.
For those rare few who’ve been following the evolution of this site since its inception, consider yourself fortunate to have been privy to – and part of – a strange creature that will never again be witnessed in the history of man: for now it cannot, for we know what it is.
So long for now,
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”