sometimes i wonder, when will this finally be over? people have got to do something, if they can’t take it anymore. but people keep on taking it. people are so adaptable, and the beautiful soul mentality sets in.
it gets tiring, as days go by, and i lose track of those days, huge blocks of time dedicated to doing absolutely nothing at my work. i originally thought i could think while working, if i had my routine down pat, but my routine got the best of me, deadening my senses. i just say shit to say shit, sometimes, something i never did before. these days are wearing on me, i wish i could just party and drown my thoughts but they continue festering onto my grey matter like boils.
my biggest fear is that all the side projects i do will be in vain. going in and out of various scenes, yet still holding this ‘commitment’ to whatever it is i am committed to makes me realize maybe i should have just not ever gone down the path i have taken, its as if i’ve been condemned. then i remember my path isn’t any different than others have taken, its the same goddamn thing, just a little bit more appealing, a therapeutic function to an increasingly insane world. its hard to keep sane sometimes, all the thoughts rush forward, i want to read so much, write so much, do so much, be so much, but i have such little time, and the time i do have is so overwhelming in its smallness. so much needs to get done, and it is too much.
living simpler has been one of my primary goals. but stress, anxiety, depression, anger, sadness always come back full circle. i can’t talk to people on a ‘normal’ basis, whatever the hell that is. i sometimes feel like i had made a mistake, but it is too late.
maybe one day something will happen. the Event will come, and we will all be redeemed. but as i look around, a sense of deep pessimism drains me of any optimism, and i realize that we are completely fucked. oh man, people can take so goddamn much…and why is this seen as a trait of strength? the weak man is seen to be the one that always complains, but if we all shut the fuck up, then we will increasingly drown in this unreality.
culture: a dead husk, smells like its been rotting for awhile now.
don’t know
Ravage, cloister, seclusion in utter freedom, parameters without boundaries, where do we go from here? Finitude, the body and its breakdowns, blood pumping, something is wrong, palpitations, dysphoria, retention and release, catatonia, breakdown, despair, desolation, delirium _ _ _
words, how many do i know? how many more are there to know? does this approximate what can happen at any moment? do we know each other? do i know myself? destitution, continuing on. infinitely. INfinitely. inside your finitude, not outside, which is presupposed by death, where finitude is dominated by. understanding, possible? interpretation, always. never the same. never the same. always the same. it comes and goes, but the ebb and flow are always so limiting. the need for more. the want for more. the desire for something else. maybe it will come one day.
Sovereign is he who decides on the exception
In the person of the Emperor isolated subjectivity has gained a perfectly unlimited realization. Spirit has renounced its proper nature, inasmuch as Limitation of being and of volition has been constituted an unlimited absolute existence…Individual subjectivity, thus entirely emancipated from control, has no inward life, no prospective nor retrospective emotions, no repentance, nor hope, nor fear—not even thought; for all these involve fixed conditions and aims, while here every condition is purely contingent. The springs of action are no more than desire, lust, passion, fancy—in short, caprice absolutely unfettered. It finds so little limitation in the will of others, that the relation of will to will may be called that of absolute sovereignty to absolute slavery.
When two bodies animated by forms-of-life that are absolutely foreign to one another meet at certain moment and in a certain place, they experience hostility. This type of encounter gives rise to no relation; on the contrary, it bears witness to the original absence of relations.
The hostis can be identified and its situation can be known, but it itself cannot be known for what it is, that is, in its singularity. Hostility is therefore the impossibility for bodies that don’t go together to know one another as singular.
Whenever a thing is known in its singularity, it takes leave of the sphere of hostility and thereby becomes a friend—or an enemy.
There is not community except in the singular relations. The community doesn’t exist. There is only community, community that circulates.
War, because in each singular play between forms-of-life, the possibility of a fierce confrontation—the possibility of violence—can never be discounted.
Civil, because the confrontation between forms-of-life is not like that between States—a coincidence between a population and a territory—but like the confrontation between parties, in the sense this word had before the advent of the modern State. And because we must be precise from now on, we should say that forms-of-life confront one another as partisan war machines.
Civil war, then, because forms-of-life know now separation between men and women, political existence and bare life, civilians and military;
because whoever is neutral is still a party to the free play of forms-of-life;
because this play between forms-of-life has not beginning or end that can be declared, its only possible end being a physical end of the world that no one would be able to declare;
and above all because I know of no body that does not get hopelessly carried away in the excessive, and perilous, course of the world.
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