Why didn't they kill me? Aren't the dead the fortunate ones? They no longer suffer, and they no longer devour to love. They are freed from the prison of the world and from the vise of the body, that dreadfully tight uniform whose pressure crushes us and tears us apart. I think they didn't kill me so they could keep on defiling me.

Only existence is touched by death; the dead — or so I hope — have stepped outside the life-death guillotine we call the world, where nothing ever truly blossoms, where nothing can ever truly reach itself, join itself, and unfold into its own truth made tangible at last. The world is the place where falsehood always has to occur.

The duality of life and death, life and lies, means nothing to those who have escaped it, for this duality exists only here, for us, the so-called living, who are in truth the Shackled. I do not want to live. I want to drink fragments of the Cosmic Fire; I want to drink the infinite, from within itself. But life is made with death, and is part of it.

Here, this is hell. Or rather a premature apocalypse that never stops devouring itself. Slowly. Creation never happened. Through an infinitesimal backward movement, at the very point where it was meant to begin, it collapsed into an abyss below itself — into its own vertiginous finitude, naked and empty. Why is there a world at all, and not only the infinite?

But perhaps we must still choose to hope; to say that all this is nothing more than the collision with a reality simply thrown off its axis, drifting far from its center — a reality that does not yet exist, but will gradually come to be. It is already on its way, arising, grinding forward; getting closer now, and it will not miss us. "The real is the encounter itself, the gift, the endless direction received" — so I used to say; perhaps, in the end, it will not cut off our heads.

Are we living, in our own bodies, the pains of the world's belated birth? Do we absorb the apocalypses? Do they gnaw themselves away within us, only to vanish from their own horizon? Can we still believe that we are the crucibles of a slow and unreachable marvel — blind crucibles of a Unity, perhaps, devouring its own spine in order to embrace itself more perfectly?

"We must still will ourselves to hope…" Yet will this resolve be anything more than the sadness of one more duty, or the thrill of a new power? Will not the Void have thus reclaimed its rights, long before Being ever came to be?

We were born riddled with silence. I learned to stand above the Void because there was nowhere else to be. Like a chrysalis that never opens, I endure my own becoming, sealed in a fever of light and death. The world moves below — distant, uncomprehending — while I remain suspended in this unbroken hush. I am neither falling nor rising. I burn, and I wait.

Nov. 2025