A spirituality divested of spirit—a new materiality, a slip of the transcendent into an object—is it possible? Depreciation of the objective, which consciousness self-renders, leads to divergences into abstraction. Is it still at all possible to slip into the world, away from consciousness?
A true story is not an account and already assumes too much. A reflection, maybe, but even this puts too much faith in the concept. Facts least of all are true. Concepts perhaps more so. Yet they still take too much. What survives is not what happens, but what happens after what happens. Reflection does not discern what can be abstracted into thought, but precisely what cannot. Reflection notes the failures of thought.
I know I am decadent because I am forced to speak. I am repulsed by the need to express agony, which is far less possible today than in previous times. The twentieth century took on the absurd because it had effaced angst. In conditions exponentially more congested it is now the absurd which is today effaced by—abandon(?). We face the annihilation of a nothing. The end manifests as the complete lack of anything to lament. Fear and despair both then lose their purity and legitimacy. Our fear is no longer real. We are not even allowed to be depressed in a way which is true to the holy spirit of melancholy.
The greatest transgression against our humanity has been the theft of our ability to feel inhuman in a human way. We do not know what it is to be tired of ourselves in an honest manner. We are alienated from our own alienation. Far past the end of culture there is nothing to be grieved as having been lost—no one is now more dishonest, uselessly conservative, impotent, than the one who despairs. We have lost the energy even for suicide.
But not all exhaustion is tiring.