there is an over-inflation in the value of the individual, and the individual’s ideas. perhaps this is what zarathustra saw, the superman above morality as twenty-first century creatives.
no, that cannot be, as they are addicted to their happiness. that is what chains them still, hopelessly. they chain themselves to their idols whom preach happiness, and they, like thirsty ones, drink up the muddy waters of happiness, self-love, and meaning. is the individual one the most important components of the linear time of today? is who i am dependent on nothing except the whim of my will, and spirit? or is the whim of those who see my will and spirit what creates me in this moment? can this be truth?
these people eschew Truth, yet fiercely hold to some subjective, all-swallowing concept of trueness. these people seek happiness by blinding themselves to horror, by rejecting fear, and knowing no evil. and thus they know no good, either, only mediocrity. ideas have no value, they are without a body. you have no expertise in the world of the living, you are simply a talking head. you are no one, a child among infants, on a podium screaming aloud the beauty of ideas, and the mistreatment of a system which recognized you, which crowned you. i say this directly to mr.west and any other talking head celebrity which preaches to us “regular geniuses”. i find great discomfort in this hubris, in the hubris of all of us now in the culture, whom are flying so close to the sudden sun, willingly staring into that star so as to go blind, willingly ripping our wings from one another so as to free-fall together in this moment. i refuse. i reject them. i have no commonality with these people. I am myself, I refuse to pretend to be placated by happiness, and refuse to pretend to hold ideas of gold. I hate those ill-spoken, and undefined.
i have no faith in them, nor do i accept their will. they are weak, for their will is based only in the pleasure-principle. what is life except for the constant refutation of that principle? among us all we hold our scars, and among us all, none yet say that burning or stabbing or rejection is pleasant. none of us has yet to say we enjoy the stab of being lonely. not alone, but lonely. none of us love the feeling of hopelessness, of dread. none of us enjoys seeing the chasm open up underneath us, swallowing us in the night as we linger in hyperactive manic depressive thoughts of worth, value, and identity. i do not care for your politics, your ideology, or your vain hope: you are a human, and you not only will suffer, but you are lovingly born to suffer. life wills it, and it is thus.
for those whom hunger around one another, talking positivism, and good energy, speaking with the pleasure-principle jammed into your faux-naturalist throats, i compel you please to sacrifice your current lifestyle and live lovingly in the prisons of russia, the concentration camps of myanmar or the current turmoil of venezuela. i implore you to rationalize happiness as the means to life as you grow old, and fail at each one of your self-proclaimed ‘dreams’. i beg you to explain to me how your laziness compelled the universe to give its “fair due” to you as you, along with the rest of us, rot within your own body. you are not heroic, you will never be heroic. you are not special, not even to yourself. you do not know yourself enough to even love yourself, you have not seen your nature, you do not know your evil. who among you is anything more than your self’s over-glorified mother or best friend? who among you is anything other than an insecure libertine, scared of life so as to lack genuine courage, scared of yourself to be yourself, and scared of being alone so as to be an individual. you are disgusting creatures, and your loving mother nature would look upon you with contempt. the lowliest bugs and wretches, which can barely hold themselves up alone. in groups, you fall into frenzy, and are thus easy pickings for the lions, eagles and wolves that hunt you.
And it is so that I still love each and every one of you. It is only through love that I could be compelled to speak at you so furiously, with your interest in mind. For I want us all to fly, and defy the heaviest gravity that binds us. Yet we cannot do that if we are to weak to carry our own brittle bones.
Oskar Mason was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He has a casual interest in literature and cultural theory.