A Lesser Voice Still
Enough. No criticism left to make, no battle left to fight. There is no point in complaining anymore. No good, no evil, no blame. Against the silence, busy and sniggering, humans mostly destroy to be. Had I known how to love them, I would still accuse, hoping to improve our shared conditions of existence. But it is useless now, and I am past that. This pleasant hell suits you. May it be yours.
I tried for a very long time to be more humanist than anyone, and it seemed to me that our philosophies themselves were deeply compromised with cynicism and the spirit of death. Between two crises, I would have liked to change that, though I never found the strength.
Coming out of my long amnesia shattered everything. Piece by piece, tenderness by tenderness, slowly. Nothing remains. I hope for nothing. The only person I truly love is vile. I hate the others, or I no longer have the strength to care. This species is a busy nothingness, and the worst realities it engages in are little more than the consequences of its very conditions of survival.
The Void is left alone now.
It had always been sovereign, filling the heart of all things with disquiet and dread — a still unmooring, a silent loss of hold.
Some lucid, sensitive individuals have perceived this Oblivion — older than our memories, the first scandal of existence itself. They have left us, or they live in hiding.
Dec. 2025