Chrysalis of Tomorrow

I have a porous ego through which a legion of gods and demons has entered and possessed me—claiming ownership of my tongue, lips, and fingers.

PREFACE: All writing until now has been composed to be read to its conclusion—no author has dared the opposite: that the conclusion must be earned, and each reader—including the writer—proven worthy of it.

I do not write to be read, but to be viciously discarded—or met at the end of the valley of the shadow of death.

Beware—my lips are not sealed by the Hippocratic Oath, but sworn to speak into existence the man of tomorrow.

The Soil of Today

I do not label any worldview as ‘evil’—but something far worse: unadmirable, unworthy of life itself.

The unwashed masses carry around the corpses of decaying worldviews—one can always identify them by their stench—their outcries against elitism.

Their great fallacy—the fallacy of the unwashed masses—is the false, universal conflation of the many with the few, framed as moral imperative. It is a transmutation of characterological weakness into a ‘logical’ complaint: ‘Everyone cannot be exceptional, therefore this is wrong.’

The exceptional exemplar of worthy values does not seek to argue with soil nor the plants which spring from them. Accordingly, I cast my seed in every direction and let it fall upon the rocks, rocky soil, and alas fecund soil.

It is admiration and awe—not sterile logic or complaint—that drive the Lamarckian ascent of worthy axioms. And while admiration is a means, not an end, sublimity is both a means and an end.

Weak ideas—those which fester from the failures of unworthy and unadmirable characters—should be punished out of existence with verbal violence, lest resentment corrupt the deeper instincts of awe and admiration.

The more dangerous and capable one is of violence and destruction, the more beautiful one’s mercy becomes. The weak, being incapable of violence, are also incapable of truly beautiful mercy; only monsters can be merciful. Those least capable of violence—and thus least capable of mercy—often cry out most loudly against the very power they secretly desire.

Many will call me an elitist—yet here I am, in the sewers of modernity, approaching you as a philosophical handyman.

My humility, if ever exercised, reaches down to the least of these and calls forth their transcendence to higher heights—it does not join them by wallowing in mud and filth.

Yes, I am an elitist—perhaps even arrogantly so at times. And let’s be honest—the arrogance of my prose drips like bittersweet honey from my lips—tantalizing you to taste a drop. Nonetheless, the world reminds me of my arrogance and demands an expansion of character and vision. Oh, but the empath, born into a world of constant characterological reassurance, often carries a deeper form of arrogance—a moral superiority and self-righteousness that rivals even my own!

Consider this contradiction of the soul: awe—the experience of something beyond oneself—can arise from something within oneself. Indeed, what is being confronted lies beyond the ego, and herein lies the danger: when the ego identifies with contents that transcend it, even though they emerge from within the individual, it risks psychological inflation.

The empath, confronted by soul-images of the highest versions of their virtues while casting out their demons—even the best of them—often find themselves not only psychically inflated, but also socially reinforced towards their own psychological destruction.

The empath is quite proud of their humility—so proud, in fact, that they long to remake the world in their own humble image. It is not enough that they alone should live modestly. Yet, alas, those who cry out for humility often cry the loudest when humiliated. In truth, the will to humble others often amounts to little more than covert violence against strength and self-expansion.

Perhaps the most striking distinction between myself and the usual empath is my willingness to be honest about my intentions—with both myself and others; rarest among empaths is the one who dares admit their own arrogance and desire to dominate others.

Shh! Listen carefully—her will to power speaks even now! It says, “Your words aren’t wrong, but they must be said differently, more kindly—remade in my own image.”

How beautiful—how cleverly violent and domineering of you—that you desire to take my lips and paint yourself upon them; gentle kindness, wielded gorgeously to subdue a powerful force, is indeed an act of violence against strength—for it seeks to dissolve power and soften its edges in her likeness.

My invitation to you is this: the disgust, the anger, and yes, the enticing fascination you felt for my bold and self-admitted arrogance—and finally, the shame you now feel for having leaned further into the text—these are your doorway to rediscovering what you’ve lost.

In truth, I am the refined antagonist—carving together the refined protagonist of tomorrow.

Modern man is beneath good and evil; that is, the capacity for genuine good and evil lies dormant—disintegrated. For man to go beyond good and evil, he must first become conscious of how terrible—and how brilliant—he truly is.

Capitalism

Behold—the system that has lifted the world out of poverty and brought about comforts once unimaginable! Just look around at this success! No—look down! Look at the rounded bellies of the masses! Behold their astonishment and glee—they can hardly stand, hardly walk, hardly breathe!

While socialism and communism left them starving, benevolent capitalists feed them—right up to the moment their hearts fail!

Such an unworthy and unadmirable system deserves, at the very least, an adversary sharp enough to cut the fat from its belly. And yet, what contender could possibly emerge from a system that breeds comfortable consumerism and quiet mediocrity?

Come—look, I’ll show you! Can you hear it—the envious and resentful cries of oppression? Drowning in an ocean of fat, they gasp and cry for more from the decadent system that feeds them poison. Their souls do not protest the rot of a decaying society; instead, they dip their drinking cups into the sewer and beg for a larger cup!

By demanding more, not less, they confess their affirmation of a system they claim to oppose. Truthfully, they do not oppose capitalism—only their place within it!

The reasoning behind their protests isn’t false, but something far worse—reflective of an unworthy and unadmirable character.

Beneath their cries for “justice,” beneath the surface affirmation of the marginal, the pitiful, the oppressed, lies their true gospel: the desired elevation of the last to the position of first, and the descent of the first to the position of last. This so-called gospel is not simply “good news” for the oppressed; it is a confession, a veiled desire for revenge against those whose equals they are not. They do not merely wish to bring the margins to the center—they long to drag the center to the margins.

Their affirmations amount to a philosophical Frankenstein—a scientific effort to resurrect a vengeful spirit long vanquished by rationalism and the Enlightenment—and what a vile creature they’ve conjured.

Their adolescent brains can conjure no darker complaints against capitalism than “exploitation and inequality”—forgivable characteristics compared to its greater sins!

Blinded by illusions of equality, the complainants fail to acknowledge the intrinsic differences that result in not only inequality and exploitation, but also inevitable socioeconomic immobility in our increasingly complex society.

Even this might be forgivable, were the bodies and souls of the masses grounded, at minimum, as the raw material for something sublime. However, through mutual complicity, the bodies and souls of the unwashed masses are ground between the cogs of capitalism to produce decadence.

Behold—capitalism’s greatest sin: that it elevates the will to comfortably survive above the will to transcend, that it manufactures souls so unrefined and gullible they trade diamonds and gold for bread and circuses.

It is a pseudo-meritocracy—a farce designed to create the illusion of progress toward a better society. It does not reward true merit, but rather the supply of whatever is most valued by the unwashed masses—and what values can one expect from cattle?

Detractors, know this: I am not angry with you—I am disappointed.

For though you possess an adversarial spirit, you blaspheme against it—not by reaching upward, but by descending into the profane—an unforgivable sin.

Ask yourself—then ask again, with all due seriousness—is there nothing in your life, no vision, no ideal, worth dying for? Do your eyes and heart not ache for a beauty so brilliant that one would destroy themselves only to touch it?

Understand that as long as my flames continue licking away all that is unworthy in you, my eyes perceive something beneath the chaff—something worthy of forging together for tomorrow.

However, for the average man—content and complicit in the continuation of our modern age—my flames do not desire a mere taste, but seek to devour all who are irredeemably unworthy of tomorrow.

Structuralism & Post-Structuralism

Post-Structuralism—ha! The very name confesses the underlying reactionary and unoriginal character of its adherents!

Despite their desperate attempts to muddy the shallow waters of their soul to keep it hidden—despite their efforts to evade categorization—the post-structuralist inevitably reveals themselves through predictable outcries against “verbal violence,” “exclusion,” and “privilege.”

On one hand, the reactionary wields obscurity to conceal the shamefulness of her philosophical body; on the other, her shallowness renders her incapable of grasping—let alone articulating—the full breadth of her own worldview.

Come—let us undress her philosophy, examine what lies beneath, and reveal—in her own amplified voice—the murky contents at the bottom of her soul-puddle: “Structuralism, an outgrowth of Western grand narratives, is an oppressive force that divides the world into rigid hierarchical binary categories and constructs meaning accordingly. Like any hierarchy, one term is always privileged in a binary category while its counterpart is subordinated, othered, and excluded. The tendency of western narratives to center one term, such as ‘male,’ and marginalize the other, in this case ‘female,’ is not a mere valuation but linguistic violence. In their rigidity, binary categories silence the less privileged by closing off the hierarchical values they impose from re-examination. This rigidity is justified by the appearance of the privileged term’s ‘definite and independent presence.’ However, the very presence and meaning of these terms is always contingent on what they exclude—light exists in relation to darkness, male in relation to female, and rationality in relation to emotion. Finally, society itself and the meaning therein is an outgrowth of its overarching narrative. Because grand narratives form the bedrock of civilizations, the institutions emerging from this bedrock are subject to the same binary classification schema which grant power to some while excluding it from others. Consequently, it is morally imperative to ask ‘who is excluded, silenced, and marginalized’ that we may include them and amplify their voice.”

I concede—in fact, I’ll take her philosophy even further than she dares!

In the unconscious depths of the psyche lurk competing wills, each seeking to monopolize ego-consciousness for the sake of its own self-expression and expansion. It is ego-consciousness—wielded by the unconscious mind—that cleaves the world into binary categories, both living and abstract. Like adversarial pirates aboard separate vessels, competition arises not only between underlying wills but also between the willed agents themselves. Indeed, hierarchical arrangements emerge from such conflict—but the generative meaning lies not in the hierarchy itself, but in the processes of self-expression, expansion, and overcoming. Beyond merely being represented by grand narratives, these processes reflect the very structure of narrative itself—there is no story without struggle, without protagonism and antagonism.

Truthfully, the post-structuralist already knows this to be the case—albeit subconsciously—and admits as much through her protests.

Secretly, she desires to express and expand herself—and that desire, intermingled with her inability to actualize it, speaks the phrase: “Make space for the marginalized.”

The very phrase acknowledges an adversarial occupancy of the axiological landscape—one she seeks to displace with her own presence and self-expansion.

Lacking both force and persuasive ability, she resorts to guilt and pleads with her adversary to concede axiological territory.

Friends and foes alike: the axiological landscape belongs to those who command awe and admiration as exceptional exemplars of worthy values. Accordingly, space cannot be given—it must be earned.

To those few who do not wallow in their ugliness by pouring mud upon an already filthy character—those who instead obscure an underlying beauty, perhaps out of shame for their own splendor—I place my sponge upon your feet, hands, and face to wash them clean and to permit an unapologetic expression of self.

On the other hand, even the “fiercest” advocates of structuralism reveal a form of reactionary cowardice—a fear of uncertainty, chaos, and doubt.

What is the nature of the motive to create an objective and totalizing system if not to release the tension inherent to chaos and put an end to hierarchical conflict? In effect, it is equally criminal to those declaring their desire to flatten all hierarchies—to end struggle—the very thing that produces existential meaning!

Concerning grand narratives, consider the greatest one you have ever encountered: where does its meaning truly reside? In its conclusion? Or do you secretly wish you had never encountered it at all—so that you might relive the journey, experiencing anew the very processes by which its conclusions were reached?

Accordingly, the Grandest Narrative—if it is ever to exist and remain a true wellspring of meaning—must be written not simply to be read, but to be re-read, reinterpreted, dismantled, and rebuilt again for all eternity.

Secular Humanism

Whenever religious “would-be critics” of Secular Humanism confront their adversaries, they most often encounter militant atheists who rarely disclose their true ideological stance. Indeed, atheism is not a belief but rather a lack of belief in any god. Yet, with few exceptions, the clever militant atheist keeps Secular Humanism tucked away in their back pocket as their actual creed.

Our would-be critic, unaware of their more cunning adversary’s true positions, is consequently forced into a reactive defense of their beliefs as they are intellectually pummeled. A product of our age, the critic experiences cognitive dissonance when confronted with science and reason—the very principles they have been enculturated to accept as valid foundations for belief.

Our would-be critic can be summed up in one phrase: ignorantly reactive, clinging to the corpse of a decaying worldview.

Ironically, the would-be critic is the slightly less educated, less cunning twin brother of the militant atheist. While the would-be critic accepts the militant atheist’s rational and scientific foundationalism, the militant atheist, in turn, embraces key tenets of the would-be critic’s decaying worldview—a mutual cross-acceptance.

Indeed, Secular Humanism is yet another philosophical Frankenstein—an attempt at a second resurrection, this time brought to life by science and reason.

Although, in theory, our militant atheist possesses the intellectual prowess to argue for Secular Humanism on their own, they are not present—so I shall offer an argument even greater than any yet presented: Secular Humanism rests not on a foundational belief in God, but on a foundation of human agency—necessary for moral action—oriented toward human flourishing under the guidance of science and reason. By relying on science and reason instead of God to establish an objective morality, Secular Humanists are freed from oppressive religious dogma that ultimately undermines human well-being. By relying on reason to establish free agency, Secular Humanists are empowered to enact their moral system in the world.

Now, let us examine this Frankenstein for signs of brain damage or coronary defects—aha, they are abundant!

We’ve heard the Secular Humanist’s characterological complaint against God. But what is their intellectual complaint? It goes: “Given the lack of scientific evidence for God, I declare Him not guilty of existing.” Yet why is free will—an essential prerequisite for evil, yet fundamentally at odds with the scientific worldview—not similarly declared “not guilty of existing”? Every moralist reasons backward from the conclusion that free will must exist, because to deny it would unravel the very foundations of good and evil.

Even the Compatibilist, in their desperation to salvage morality, declares that one is free so long as one acts according to one’s intrinsic reasons and desires. Yet, one does not freely reason or desire. Morals are not reasoned into existence. Furthermore, when one is said to be “responsive” to reason, it is not a unified self that responds, but rather one among many pre-existing and aligning unconscious wills. Accordingly, rational deliberation is little more than the exhaust of competing underlying wills.

Yet to the Compatibilist, mere responsiveness—even if deterministic—is enough to declare one “free and therefore moral,” so long as there is no external coercion. This, however, is a redefinition of free will.

What Compatibilists fail to admit—or perhaps fail to realize—is that the relationship between moral responsibility and free will is not definitional but logical; the claim that one should or shouldn’t act in a particular way logically implies the capacity to have acted otherwise.

Behold the true motive behind every rational justification of free will: free will must exist to designate actions as good or evil. Therefore, free will exists. But that’s not all—the Secular Humanist also seeks to grant themselves the logical freedom to make universally objective moral claims. On what grounds is their morality considered universal? The shared subjective experience of the unwashed masses?

Intellectual heavyweights like the Secular Humanists should know better than to conflate popular consensus with objective truth—unless, as is often the case when they cloak moralizing in the guise of rationality, they harbor ulterior motives: namely, to impose an otherwise unadmirable and unworthy philosophy.

What is the germ out of which Secular Humanism grew? It is the assertion that all humans hold equal intrinsic value. This assertion—once grounded in man’s supernatural origins—is now rooted in naturalistic Sentientism; the capacity to experience pleasure and pain. From this basis—and the assumption that well-being should be maximized by minimizing negative states and maximizing positive ones—the Secular Humanist begins attributing rights. If they are intellectually consistent, the Secular Humanist eventually devolves into a toothless moralizing vegan.

The egalitarians cry out, “Everyone should have an equal voice!” And in doing so, is it any wonder that modern literature has become so diluted?

The egalitarians cry out, “Everyone deserves an equal vote!” And in doing so, is it any wonder that politicians—driven to appeal to the lowest common denominator—appear foolish and incompetent?

The egalitarians cry out, “Everyone deserves an education!” And in doing so, is it any wonder that our educational institutions are now infested with dullards?

The egalitarians cry out, “Everyone deserves to be included!” And in doing so, have we not elevated the last to the first—and diminished the first to the last?

The egalitarians cry out, “Everyone deserves equal respect!” And in doing so, is it any wonder that calls to excellence seldom take root beyond rocky soil?

Alas—we come to the Secular Humanist as a person. Let us uncloak them!

In truth, for the Secular Humanist, science and reason were never tools to discover a neutrally objective source of morality—because they forbid science and reason from arriving at elitist moral interpretations. Instead, science and reason must be wielded by and for the weak. Behind their veneer of intellectual grandeur lies the same characterological impotence as their twin brother—the would-be critic.

Under their ethos, well-being must never come at the expense of others. Yet struggling, expanding, and overcoming oneself and the world—the very processes that give life meaning—necessarily exclude and come at the expense of at least some.

Fundamentally, as with any morality imposed as objective and universal, it denies man’s intrinsic nature and is, accordingly, anti-life—anti-human!

Feminism

The ideological power struggles between men and women throughout the 20th and 21st centuries are the theater of one reactionary force meeting another—feminism as a response to the historical subjugation of women, and traditional conservatism as a reaction to their fully realized political and cultural equality.

Women’s liberation from men—like the death of God—confronts the modern woman with the abyss and an unspeakable nihilism.

In the midst of their contentions for freedom, in making freedom the aim and not a means, they forgot to articulate a set of new life-affirming values towards which they might strive. Consequently, having been freed from pharaoh, the modern woman now wonders aimlessly in the desert.

Nonetheless, man cannot exist without struggle—whether decadent or noble—so is it any wonder that, even after attaining freedom, the feminist must now and forever continue inventing new demons?

In what noble, heroic image do they cast themselves in opposition to these demons of the imagination? They are strong, independent—yet entirely helpless and victimized in the face of the abyss.

Many women, in their contentions with men, have not become noble women—but rather weak, unadmirable, and unworthy men.

To the handful of women who lie beyond the rocks and rocky soil I say: cast your demons which prove unworthy aside and peer into the abyss from which they came. Rediscover the depths of your femininity and unapologetically embrace your instinct to pursue what is highest in man.

On the other hand, the traditional conservative often finds himself fundamentally at odds with woman’s most brilliant and life-advancing instinct: hypergamy.

For traditional conservatives, the purpose of marriage is to preserve society, rather than to unite two worthy individuals in the creation of something even greater than themselves. Despite their claims to the contrary, they always confess their egalitarian belief that all should marry and reproduce, and that declining birth rates are inherently bad. In truth, not all are worthy of partaking in the creation of the man of tomorrow.

What, then, is this minimally qualifying standard for the creation of tomorrow’s generation? Namely, it is freedom from resentment and the capacity for worthy admiration.

Among those least capable of reproduction—the involuntarily celibate—resentment often abounds, and the capacity for worthy admiration is notably absent.

Physically, the incel can be described as having prey-like eyes, a negative canthal tilt, a flat midface, a recessed jawline, and asymmetrical facial features—a snack for a predator.

Spiritually, the black-pilled incel can be described as decadent to the lowest degree—an antithesis to the highest man.

By some dark miracle, such types have managed to pervert the instinct of admiration and are quintessential examples of the will to make what is last first, and what is first last. In the darkest corners of their communities, they find their god and object of admiration—the Supreme Gentleman—a transformation from passive nihilism to active nihilism—the will to destroy both oneself and the world.

The black-pilled incel—acutely aware of female nature yet painfully inept at attracting women—mirrors the disembodied intellectualism so often found in academics.

If one listens beyond the black-pilled incel’s hatred, they hear not hatred, but an over-idealization of women—born from an inability to separate their grand fantasies and intellect from the lesser reality of woman as she is. In the realm of thought, they place women beneath them; yet in the recesses of their flesh, they kneel—powerless—before them.

Truthfully, the black-pill is not a foundation of fecund soil or even rocky soil, but searing rock upon which seeds are scorched out of existence. Thus, those chained to it—brimming with resentment and barren of noble admiration—are fated to fade away as the men of yesterday.

The Principle of Charity, Hanlon’s Razor, & Machiavelli’s Razor

Ironically, analytic philosophers—armed with the Principle of Charity and Hanlon’s Razor—often fail to cut deep enough. Such heuristics—intellectually lazy shortcuts by nature—reflect the naivety of the Enlightenment thinker’s presupposition that all humans are, and ought to be, fundamentally good and rational.

Indeed, rather than exploring the vital forces that give rise to fallacies, contradictions, and inconsistencies, the analytic philosopher prefers to assume ignorance and replace it with a patchwork of charitable rationality.

“Critical” theorists—the most prominent opponents of these principles—are, today, the unfortunate and unworthy contenders against analytic philosophy’s tendency toward oversimplification.

Rather than delving beneath the surface of rational dialogue, the critical theorist cannot be bothered to employ “emotional labor” to understand opposing perspectives. Instead, dialogue must be framed in terms of whose identity intersects across the greatest number of oppressed classes, such that charity and understanding are granted exclusively to them.

Such types lack more than empathy; in their delusions of grandeur, they often laughably request payment to expend “emotional labor” on sharing their own decadent perspectives!

Tucked in the back pocket of the critical theorist is a Machiavellian razor: the assumption that ignorance, error, harmful outcomes—even seemingly innocuous reasoning—should be attributed to self-interest or deliberate malice.

As with most cowardly moralizers—and thus their blunt, reductionist razors—each camp hacks the world down to the scale of its own intellectual poverty, a desperate attempt to avoid the threat of real complexity.

In truth, for both camps, malice is nothing more than “the willingness to harm for self-interest”—they cannot imagine anything darker.

Yet will is more than mere self-service. Will is expressive, expansive—willing even to sacrifice the whole, if only to assert itself.

And if will is willing to sacrifice the whole, won’t it likewise produce contradictions, fallacies, and inconsistencies—if only to preserve itself?

What is needed, then, is not a razor nor yet another heuristic, but a scalpel: One should not rush to attribute rationality, ignorance, goodness, malice, or even self-interest to an argument, but instead examine the specific underlying wills striving to express and expand themselves through discourse.

In truth, any perspective can be rationalized and argued successfully. Accordingly, to avoid the convenient escapism of abstract detachment, I concede all rational ground to establish a shared, inhabited space. Then—scalpel in hand—I enter that space and claim the axiological territory.

Identitarianism

In the realm of ideas, some groups are the academic equivalent of trailer trash—marked by a malnourished intellect, physical impoverishment, and often very foul character.

Despite attempts at obfuscating their shallow intellect, they always confess their individual inferiority by their choice language: identity.

Lacking individual substance, the identitarian clings to race, gender, sexual orientation, nationality, and ideology—crutches that compensate for an absence of personal depth.

Like any trash found strewn across the streets, it doesn’t appear out of nowhere. Instead, the identitarian is the intellectual litter of fragile and embittered educators, discarded after what little potential they may have possessed is consumed.

Indeed, like hallowed reeds, the youth are carelessly carved into disposable instruments through which professors pipe their cacophonous ideologies of oppression.

Chaotic nihilism—the birthplace of dancing stars—is equally the birthplace of dancing puppets; a weak mind, thrown far from equilibrium, spontaneously reorders itself in the image of the nearest authority.

Even in the depths of filthy coal mines, a handful of diamonds may be mistakenly mined as ore—and used as fuel for unworthy ideologies.

To those few—fashioned in the image of trash, yet still bearing the potential for beauty beneath—I offer this antidote: set your surface aflame, then plunge into the depths of your chaotic becoming, that you might refashion yourself in an image all your own—awe-inspiring and true.

Progressivism

Progressivism, the will of the decadent protagonist, is the absolutist will of the weak—and the shadow of my greatest adversary.

Progress—as defined by the weak—is the remaking of the world in their own image.

Progress—as defined by the man of tomorrow—is the remaking of oneself, and by extension the world, in the image of that which is most worthy of admiration.

That said, not everyone holds intrinsic value; rather, some possess intrinsic potential for greatness, while others do not. Truthfully, to admire greatness is to glimpse the future self. To resent it is to confess one’s incapacity.

The will to abort, to deny life, is a confession of those unworthy of it. Accordingly, those who seek to abort life should follow through—liberating tomorrow’s generation from unworthy heritable and acquirable characteristics.

The will to social justice—the drive to abolish value judgments against the unworthy and to wield resentment as a weapon against the excellent—is the will of a viper drawn to death.

Our poor viper, forced to crawl along the lower parts of society, secretly brews a vengeful venom to sink into the heels of those above it.

Rather than concerning itself with rats and other beasts of the field, it laments its disadvantages in comparison to those above it.

In truth, though our viper may be well-equipped to deal with smaller game, one cannot elevate a viper into a dragon that it may soar alongside eagles.

The cunning viper, knowing all too well its own incapacity for greatness, conjures a new fantasy: I shall tear the wings from every creature that dares to fly above me.

Lacking limbs, our poor viper’s fantasy is short-lived.

“Aha!” hisses the viper. “I shall strike at their heels, that my venom may rob them of the will to spread their wings.”

Such is the nature of their chosen words—equality, equity, privilege—the will to make the last first and the first last.

The viper’s venom is a hollowing sort—meant to carve a nihilistic void into the hearts of the afflicted, and to fill it with seething resentment.

Indeed, the viper yearns to remake the greater beasts in its own debased image!

I, too, have felt the viper’s strike, and in my heart have conjured this antidote: when the viper strikes the heel, crush its head with godlike laughter—for though the viper cannot be exalted to a dragon, neither can the eagle be reduced to a cold and impotent penguin.

Conservativism

Conservativism, the will of the decrepit man of yesterday, is the will of the blind and stagnant.

Devoid of vision, the conservative becomes, by necessity, a reactionary—indeed, something worse: a reactionary against other reactionaries.

In truth, despite the unadmirable character of the progressivist, tomorrow’s conservative is merely the maintenance man of the progressivist’s future Crystal Palace.

If the progressivist is a viper, the conservative is but a cowering, apologetic mouse—too timid to assert itself in the viper’s presence, save only for the occasional screech.

Unlike the eagle, our poor rodent is no match for the viper’s venom. Quite the opposite—the venom is specifically designed for the mouse.

Though adversaries, both progressivists and conservatives rise from the same withered corpse of Christianity. And when the viper strikes with venom, it delivers the very poison of values the conservative clings to still. Were it otherwise—if the lowly mouse could soar to the heights of an eagle—it might laugh with a godlike mirth in the face of equality, equity, and privilege.

Instead, our mouse is left to justify the trespasses of their shared values, while the viper injects additional venom and brands the mouse the “one true monster.”

Fascism

For all our ignorance—and for all our careless misbranding of adversarialism as fascistic—our society, more than any before it, is most deserving of the rise of fascism.

Beware—when one repeatedly conjures devils and ghosts, they will eventually appear; the wolf preys upon the child who carelessly utters its name in vain.

Connotative habituation—the exhaustion of a word’s emotive force through overuse and exposure—prepares a person to approach the word in a new, potentially agreeable light.

A soul habituated to ghosts and devils becomes unconscious of them—and that which is left unconscious possesses.

The specter of fascism—carelessly conjured by its very detractors—hovers over the face of Modernity, searching for souls in which to house itself.

Like all devils exorcised without care, it shall return sevenfold, bringing with it spirits more wicked than itself.

Truthfully, the seeds of fascism—indeed, of totalitarianism itself—lie buried in the depths of every human soul; wills left unconscious seek to remake the world in their image.

Given our ignorance—our carelessness—even our delusions of inherent ‘goodness’—no true adversary of fascism exists today; one must first gaze into the abyss before one can confront it.

One must earn the right to call oneself an adversary of fascism—first by identifying the fascist within, and then, if one so desires, by articulating a new way forward.

To every good person—endowed with empathy and love for their fellow man—would the world not be better if it were remade in your image?

If every one of your detractors—vicious and cruel in their opposition—were to lay down their weapons and confess your moral superiority, would they, along with all of mankind, not be perfectly remade?

Imperfect as our world is—blind and arrogant in the face of empathy’s perfection—is it not necessary to meet power with even greater power—indeed, with force?

Those in agreement, behold the discovery of the seeds of totalitarianism from which fascism and its brethren arise.

All totalizing wills—including empathy—seek to divide, conquer, and reshape the world in their own image. Innocent characteristics on their own—until they seek to permanently purge all opposition, rendering the newborn image of the world stagnant, unchallenged, and unchanging.

The great crime of fascism—indeed, of totalitarianism itself—is that it lacks the playfulness and creativity of a child.

Whoever seeks to dominate should strive to do so with levity and an open mind; even gods must, from time to time, allow themselves to be outwitted and maneuvered by mere mortals.

A god who can no longer laugh at themselves—who can no longer delight in the playful exploitation of their vulnerabilities—is no longer becoming.

The Goblin With a Thousand Faces

Behold the goblin—ugly in face, fragile in form, with an ever-growing nose—the very embodiment of its grotesque character and compulsion to tell lies.

A wretched being requires a thousand masks—a thousand hollow ideologies—in which to pour its unsavory spirit.

Indeed, its emptiness is like a nesting doll—each hollow shell enclosing another, equally hollow, echoing nothing but its own ever-shrinking, nihilistic unbecoming.

Every ideology is, in truth, both an encasement of one’s character and a justification for it.

The need to justify oneself—to rationally fortify one’s will against both oneself and the world—is perhaps the most telling characteristic of the goblin’s thousand masks.

Worse than being the last resort of the weak, rational argumentation—which inherently demands self-justification—reveals the ugly core of that which must be justified in order to persist; to justify—to plead one’s case before the tribunal of reason—is to confess one’s insufficiency.

Beauty and admirability, in both character and appearance, do not argue—they conquer, subdue, and rearrange their subjects.

The goblin—tethered to rationality by necessity, yet secretly envying the strength of will possessed by nobler beings—inevitably seeks to bind the bold and beautiful to its own slave master: a “chain of logic” that imprisons one from expressing their finer instincts.

But alas, the eagle—in all its splendor—belongs to the skies. And while the goblin may vainly fasten waxen wings to itself, the eagle not only reaches the sun, but returns bearing heavenly fire.

A slimy perversion—a mawkish, kakistocratic will to invert what is worthy and beautiful—is shrouded in the goblin’s filthy garb of ‘the least of these.’

The goblin’s naked truth is its desire to punish with impunity, to ascend without consequence, and to punch upward while moralizing against the steady hand that dares to set it straight.

Truthfully, the will to immunize oneself against scrutiny of one’s worst aspects is indistinguishable from the will to tyranny.

Listen carefully for it—the tyrant’s quiet admission of their will to tyrannize, their declaration that they are “beneath” all criticism and must be safeguarded from it.

They always confess their tyranny when under the knife—and when jabbed, it is their most cancerous tumors that screech the loudest, desperate to preserve their spreading decadence.

As one’s scalpel caresses its subject, pay close attention to the parts that tremble most in anticipation of the operation. And when a part reveals itself as wholly resistant to transformation—do not merely jab, but twist the knife, and excise what proves incapable of a worthy becoming.

Christianity

Every willing agent must wager their existence—their entire soul—on something.

Since every man is necessarily all in, the true test of character lies not in how much one wagers, but in what one dares to stake everything upon.

The enlightened, rational, self-interested Christian wagers that it is better to forfeit this life for the next—or worse still, he trembles not out of hope, but at the terror of the hereafter should he refuse the wager.

And in denying this life, what can one expect if not a soul-gnawing nihilism? In most cases, nihilism is the byproduct of excess liberty without orientation. And yet, our Christian is both a whipped slave—and nihilistic.

Indeed, what is hell if not the anchoring of a soul to an abyss of meaningless suffering?

In dark places, it is not plants or weeds that grow, but fungi that decompose the soul. Along my journey, I’ve encountered countless fungi-covered Christians—those who, through rational compartmentalization, embrace the redemption of the resurrection while quietly freeing themselves from the demands of the rest of their holy book. In trading a life-denying creed for aimless freedom, the fungi-covered Christian merely traverses from one abyss to another.

The fate of every worthy Christian is this: that one day, a light-bearing specter shall rise from the abyss with an outstretched hand.

One must have the courage to lose their faith in order to find it. Truthfully, if one recoils in fear when faced with the prospect of losing their faith, they have already lost it.

God

To know all things—past, present, and future—is to inhabit a realm in which all things are inevitable.

To be all-powerful in such a realm is necessarily to be the deterministic cause of all that occurs.

To be omnipresent in a realm entirely determined by one’s will is to make existence itself indistinguishable from oneself.

Indeed, such an isolating and meaningless existence would drive even the noblest of beings to unbearable madness.

As Eve was born of Adam’s rib, would not such a madman pluck out His own eye,
that from His wound might be born chaos—and with it, a world of potential beyond His will?

Would not such a madman forsake divine providence in pursuit of a matrimonial union with chaos itself?

Would not such a madman withdraw His presence that the offspring of this union may truly exist?

Truthfully, the madman buried his eye in Paradise, and from it arose the Tree of Knowledge.

And alas, for no transcendental tale may unfold without a worthy foe, the madman released a great serpent upon himself and His creation—lest they, like Him, went mad in the stillness of sterile perfection.

As a father wrestles with his offspring, so too does the madman wrestle with his creation.

Man is a beast stretched between foes—His lower nature drawn toward hell’s depths,
While his higher nature reaches toward heaven’s heights—Transcendence at any cost.

The grandest narrative of being is this: man, ever yearning, stretches toward the divine, while the divine, in sacred paradox, descends into the confines of existence—for it is not perfection, but the eternal striving beyond one’s limits, that gives birth to meaning.

Nihilism

Nihilism, in its complete form, is the stretching of the soul so far from equilibrium that it is brought beyond chaos into a frozen state of immobilization.

Thus, I reserve my harshest judgment for the lukewarm man who wills not.

In the lowest abyss of nihilism dwells a foe so terrible that it may yet unite the forces of heaven and hell against it!

Indeed, while the king of hell reigns as the great rebel who forges counter-order, the king of nihilism stands as the great negator, whose sole desire is to drag all existence—including himself—beyond chaos, into a void of absolute nothingness.

In the beginning, a pre-cosmogonic jester—the great negator—granted a king whatever his heart desired.

Desiring to reign all realms absolutely, the king wished to be omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent.

The trickster, with cunning and guile, granted the king’s wish—and soon after, the king plunged into a nihilistic madness too great to bear.

To be omnipresent is to dissolve all other presence into oneself—yet when the unstoppable king met the unmovable jester, presence did not vanish, but merged, and they became one.

Knowing all things and possessing all power, the jester-king could will nothing new—and when one cannot will, one inevitably wills nothingness.

And thus the jester-king sat upon a throne of mirrors—each one reflecting the same infinite face, until all reflections shattered, and still he saw himself, not as many, but as none.

In erotic desperation, the jester-king clawed out his eye and birthed being—partly ordered, partly absurd.

In truth, man wrestles not only with divine order, but with the malice breeding absurdism that is part and parcel of being; the moralization of bitter absurdism spontaneously re-orders and re-orients an individual towards the will to redistribute cruelty.

The jester-king gazed regretfully upon the unwashed masses and sent a flood to cleanse the earth.

The jester-king proclaims—no, commands—‘Truly, the heavens and the earth shall one day pass away,’ for no flood, neither of water nor of blood, can cleanse the world of the sin of existence.

Indeed, day by day, the fabric of existence is torn asunder. Who, then, can withstand the absolute will to nothingness?

As man fell by the advent of moral knowledge, so too must he ascend—transcending good, evil, and non-being through the sublimity of a swan song.

Aesthetics

The highest order of a philosophy is to be renowned for its beauty and sublimity.

In truth, if one is beautiful—if one’s words are beautiful—one can be pompously wicked and still inspire transformative admiration.

The greatest criminals against humanity—if they are beautiful—are soon showered with a sea of forgiving lovers; beauty subdues and conquers all.

Accordingly, a violently aesthetic philosophy must be forgiven for the murder of a mundane modernity.

The path to the transvaluation of all values lies through the sublime clash of axiological opposites; to feel awe is to be torn from oneself by the artist’s will—and reborn in their image.

Différance—the fate of all language to endlessly defer meaning and derive it through discrimination against other words—is the fundamental limitation of consciousness, constrained by finitude. Anything truly worth saying can never be fully expressed in words. Thus, the philosopher, striving toward sublimity, closes his eyes and lets his work become poetry.

Modern man has gone centuries without sleep and is now destined for a prolonged plunge into unconsciousness. What unruly, long-neglected demons await us in the dark? What compensatory night terrors will be required to restore balance to our souls?

An excess of reason and consciousness inevitably collapses into insanity—and the wildest dreams are but the logical trajectories of madmen.

The philosopher, bound by reason and paralyzed by consciousness, reaches for the sublime—and produces propaganda. But the irrational, fluid, and unconscious artist plunges beneath himself and rises beyond himself, birthing a sublime expression of will—raw, unmediated, and aflame with becoming.

As iron sharpens iron, so does the clash of sublime wills spark a transcendent fire—where dangerously beautiful blades are forged. Thus, my deepest love is reserved for my axiological opposite: equal in strength and splendor, yet set against me as my most formidable adversary.

A Chink in My Armor

“Who hurt you?” cries the embittered moral solipsist.

Truthfully, this is no question, but the following statement: “you are morally vile, necessarily damaged, and therefore intellectually dismissible.”

My greatest offense is not that I misrepresent, but that I represent others all too well.

The paradox of empathy is that, while it is known as the faculty of understanding, it is confined to grasping only the perspectives of the weak and vulnerable.

Trauma—the fragmentation of one’s psychological narrative—is the state of a mind incapable of integrating a past adversary.

The empath—confined to understanding only the victim, not the victor—becomes a psychological breeding ground for trauma.

Accordingly, a shattered mirror reflects a shattered world—and deems the world damaged, not itself.

“You’re heartless.” cries the embittered moral solipsist.

Truthfully, the deepest hearts hold the greatest latent capacity for cruelty—for they harbor the greatest potential for resentment.

To the embittered moralist I reply: “Uproot the stones and thorns from the garden of your heart—and where they once lay, plant the seeds of your adversary.”

In exchange for surgically removing the empath’s heart and exposing it to the world, I shall reciprocate by laying bare my mind.

Wielding intellect in one hand and beauty in the other, I climbed the mountain of my past adversaries’ corpses toward the heavens—only to now find myself grasping at air.

The empath is wounded by the adversary they cannot integrate; I am haunted by the emptiness of having no one left worthy of opposing me.

My Greatest Adversary

Kill your mentor—myself. Surpass your trauma and from the ashes of resentment, forge yourself anew—worthy of admiration. Then, and only then, may you be called my greatest adversary.

My greatest adversary loves not as mortals do, but with a godlike love—beyond the limits of will, beyond her capacity for compassion. Where the mortal comforts with, ‘It’s okay to be weak,’ the godlike lover commands, ‘You could be greater than your weaknesses.’

My greatest adversary does not wear her wounds as mortals do—retreating into them, consumed by resentment, and fashioning identities from their brokenness—but instead strives beyond her wounds, forging an identity of transcendent beauty.

My greatest adversary does not shield her eyes from monsters as mortals do—casting out their shadows and clinging to innocence—but instead meets the monster’s gaze and sees herself.

My greatest adversary does not reserve her embrace for the downtrodden as mortals do—tending wounds and soothing tensions—but embraces the friction between herself and her adversary, and in doing so, gives birth to the man of tomorrow.

Seated atop the mountain’s peak, I am pulled from the heavens by a stirring below—my gaze turning downward to the mountainside.

“Ah! My adversary!” I say.

Closer she climbs, and at last her form emerges from the haze—a young woman. Though she is clothed in gentleness, her pupils fix upon me like beautifully dark arrows, drawn taut by a bow. Rather than narrowing the distance between us by loosing her arrows, she sheaths them, choosing instead to close the space by stepping forward. Her dark eyes soften like shadows—not from a lack of power to destroy, but from a deliberate restraint to do so.

“Tell me—where did you find such divine weaponry, and why do you keep them sheathed?” I ask.

She stands vulnerable before me—voluntarily.

“I saw in you the part of me I needed to become. Now—I am here to return the favor.” she replies.

She stares into me, not piercingly, but with a warmth I dare not reciprocate. I tear my eyes from hers.

“Do not shield your eyes from your lover—casting out warmth and clinging to blades—but instead meet your lover’s gaze and see yourself.” she says.

Gazing into the soft depths of her eyes, seeing all I long to destroy within myself, I reach for my blade—and she takes my hand.

“You taught me to tell others they could rise beyond their weaknesses—but now I tell you: you could be greater than your strengths.” she says.

She gently caresses my body as if examining my scars with her hands.

“Do not wear your wounds as infernos—offering no warmth, only destruction—consumed by scorn and shaping yourself into an isolated god. Instead, descend to me, that we may rise to the heavens together.” she says.

Her body, now bare with bristling hair, presses deeply into mine. Her lips, wetly anticipating my own, part to meet my tongue. Though my heart half resists, my body gives, and she draws me into hers.

“Do not reserve your embrace for the highest—building cathedrals that welcome only gods—but embrace the friction between yourself and your lover, that together we may give birth to the man of tomorrow.”

From the friction between us emerged a spark of transcendent beauty—a child. The child—with the shadowed eyes of his mother—stared into me and smiled, with the flame-tipped lips of his father. And alas, a third, inarticulate essence—beyond father, beyond mother—remained unspoken.

“What have we created?” I tremble.

Our child, burning radiantly between us—as if wrapped in flames stolen from the heavens themselves—casts piercing shadows of our naked forms.

“Our child of tomorrow.” she replies.

Turning, I face my shadow as it sinks into the earth—and gaze into the depths of Hades itself. Consumed by black fire—burning as brightly as heaven’s sun—my Promethean shadow rises and takes form, placing in my hand the sacred flame that illuminates hell. Intuitively, I reach for the child’s heavenly flame with my other hand—but it passes through, unable to grasp it. Alas, the child offers the flame freely to its mother, who takes it in her hand as if it were always hers to bear. I stare into her eyes, then lower my gaze to her hand, imagining what it would be to grasp it with my flame-bearing hand—my body shivers and trembles.

“Dare we bind heaven to hell—and bear what is born of their union?” I ask.

Our fire-wielding hands gravitate toward each other, our fingers intertwining as a breathtaking electricity crawls across my skin—she gasps, undoubtedly feeling it too. As my essence passes through my fingertips and into her skin, she reciprocates, and every gland on both of our naked bodies stands erect in awe of the other. I gaze upon her, my Eve of the morrow, and she gazes upon me, her Adam—unashamed. As our child is engulfed by both our flames, a third flame—more potent, beyond good and evil—emerges.

Apotheosis

“Come,” I take my adversarial lover’s hand. “Let us find fertile soil at the mountain’s base, where our child—and others of its kind—may play, and there fashion the world to come.”

The children worthy of tomorrow—those who can hold conflicting fires in both hands—gather at the base of the mountain, laughing and playing, beyond the world of today, yet finger-deep in the world of becoming.

Despite their unity in the shared transcendent flame, each burns with a distinct and individual fire, guided by their own sublime will—and in conflict, each fashions the elements of the earth accordingly.

Nonetheless, their conflict glows with the glee and playfulness of tomorrow—not with the resentment of the man of yesterday. And when they clash with and dissolve the elements of their playmates, they do so not as tyrants, but as creators—remaking them, more refined and more worthy of awe and admiration.

Clashing and intertwining their elements, the children create something beyond anything known to man: a crystalline yet dynamic fractal sphere—self-similar in pattern, yet burning uniquely with each child’s transcendent flame.

“Look, look!” I say, astonished. “Behold what our children have created—not a mere Philosopher’s Stone—but the Poet’s Fractal: alive, becoming, unending.”

I take the Poet’s Fractal in hand and gaze into it longingly, contemplating the man of tomorrow. It stretches my vision toward eternity, yet I’m once again haunted by the emptiness that found me at the mountain’s peak—the emptiness of the present. I see within it the man of tomorrow, yet something lacks.

“The men of yesterday whom you’ve slain.” My adversarial lover replies, as though hearing my thoughts.

I gaze deeper into the fractal, searching—my eyes grasping only the future.

“You closed your eyes as a philosopher to become a poet—now close them as a poet to become a lover.”

With my eyes shut, she takes my hand and places it on her breast—warm and electrically responsive to my touch. Reaching through her, I grasp her heart and it pulses deeply in my hand. With every beat, my heart finds rhythm in hers, and her warmth flows through my veins. I caress the scars etched in her heart that still hold space to embrace the lowest—the men of yesterday—and call them forth to become the men of tomorrow. Responsively, my heart expands—tears and scars—in her image, as if my Promethean fingers had stolen her soul and made it my own.

“You could be greater than your strengths.” She whispers.

She places her hand on my chest, my skin scorching her fingers—yet she doesn’t pull away. As though reaching through Hades, she grasps my heart, caressing it—while her own begins to beat erratically, violently, with fire

“I feel your infernal scars, and your fire—your yearning for tomorrow—soars through my veins.” She says.

Watching as her heart is remade in the image of mine, fearing it will rip her open with the same emptiness that haunts my soul, I withdraw before I become her ruin—but she clings to me, holding my soul as her own.

Her heart, a star exhausting its last reserves to consume me, implodes—then violently expands, tearing itself into a supernova. Her eyes burn with the fire of the cosmos. A single tear falls down her cheek, yet she smiles—as her body stretches eastward and westward, descends downward, and at last rises to the heavens.

My breath catches—I place my hand on my chest, reach through, and grasp my heart—our heart. Her soul stretches outward, from the center of my heart to every extremity of my body—within me, yet beyond me—her essence raising goosebumps on my skin wherever she lingers. Tears—hers—form in my eyes and travel down my cheek, falling onto the Poet’s Fractal. Returning my gaze to the Fractal, I see—no, I feel—the warmth that was once missing: the embrace of the men of yesterday.

I return to the mountain of corpses, place my hand upon it, and raise my fallen foes from the dead. They encircle me, awaiting my answer for the crimes I’ve committed. Their hearts still bound to good and evil, the demand for justice burns in their eyes. In offering, I raise the Poet’s Fractal, inviting the becoming of the man of tomorrow. The Fractal, burning and illuminating, casts shadows of everyone its light touches. Some shield their eyes before parting ways into the wilderness. Some gaze into the Fractal, envision the man of tomorrow, and draw their shadow inward—the first step toward becoming. And the rest, desiring justice—no, revenge—cast their shadows outward, onto me.

“Come,” shouts one vengeful spirit from the crowd. “Let us seize his scalpel and split his belly open—not only in punishment, but that his entrails may feed the earth, and from that blood-soaked soil, let our shattered traditions rise anew.”

The few who perceived my vision and turned their shadows inward rush to fill the gulf between me and my enemies—offering themselves in resistance.

“Go,” I say, pushing them aside. “The man of tomorrow lies beyond the doorway of one’s innermost darkness—and for them to find it, to pass through their shadows, they must first pass through me.”

Scalpel in hand, I step toward the mob and offer it to the one who cried out for it.

“Take it—do what you must.” I say, placing the scalpel in his hand.

The mob overtakes me, drives me to the ground, and tears the shirt from my back. A few men pin down my arms and legs as the one wielding the scalpel leans over my torso, placing the blade against my stomach—his eyes beaming with dark delight as it caresses my skin. Finally, the blade pierces and tears downward, spilling my entrails onto the ground. As my blood covers his hands, the darkness melts from his eyes. Light returns, and my bleeding body is reflected in his pupils—just as his blood-soaked fingers are mirrored in mine. His hands tremble as the scalpel slips from his grasp.

“Behold—you now gaze into the monster’s eyes—and see yourself.” I say.

Hell’s mouth opens around his soul, tasting his undoing with a flaming, abyssal tongue. His pupils shatter—mind dissociates—and soul flees from his body. I break free from my captor’s now loosening grip, seize him by the collar, and shake him awake.

“You must find the courage to reincarnate your bloodstained body—and in the depths of your heart, bury the seeds of your adversary.” I say.

His soul descends toward his body—then hesitates. A great serpent, its eyes gleaming with the same dark delight that once lingered in his own, slithers up from the depths below, coiling around his carcass and stretching towards his soul. The serpent opens its maw wide, baring scythe-like fangs and an abyssal throat that pulls one inward like a black hole. From one of its fangs, an object dangles—the key to the man’s becoming.

“What must I do?” his soul pleads.

“You already know—but you do not wish to know. The man of tomorrow is within, but people do not perceive it—because they do not look. The doorway is shut; the passage leads through hell, and the key hangs from the fang of your adversary.” I say.

He inches his fingers toward the serpent, resisting the magnetism of its gullet, which beckons him not to his own becoming, but to the viper’s. Grasping the serpent’s neck with one hand, he snatches the key with the other—then takes the daring descent into his body. His pupils reassemble into cracked but functional lenses, through which he gazes at his blood-soaked body—the sight scorching his soul like hellfire and loosening his grip upon the serpent.

“Fire surges through my veins—my mind is breaking—this is more than I can bear.” He cries out desperately.

“Don’t let go—gaze into the serpent’s eyes—what do you see?” I say.

Reclaiming his grip on the serpent, he boldly lifts it to eye level and meets its dark, malevolent gaze—its maw gaping open once more in silent invitation.

“I see it—the scalpel in my hand, blood trailing from my fingers, and the curve of delight on my lips.” His words tremble on his tongue as they escape.

“Look further—beyond evil—and reach into its gullet without letting it swallow you.” I say.

Peering into the black hole of the serpent’s gullet, he sees a burning light—an invitation distinct from the magnetic pull of the serpent’s belly. He reaches in, grasps it, and draws it from the serpent’s depths—a seed, burning bright. The seed recasts his shadow—and those of several others—whose projections withdraw from my body and reattach to their own. He buries the seed in his heart, and as it takes root, his eyes glimpse a nascent vision of himself—one that lies beyond good and evil.

“Behold—he who seeks shall find; he who perceives may yet become. Now go—become the men of tomorrow.” I say.

The burning desire for justice cools in the eyes of the few who dare to perceive their own shadow, and in its place, something new and dynamic crystallizes—fractal visions of tomorrow. Just as today marks the beginning of tomorrow, the sterile scaffolding of their souls begins to crumble, and they become not men, but the children of tomorrow—the mystery of their playful future creations lying dormant in their fingers. The remaining mob, still asleep, surrenders to projection, and from the depths of their shadows, serpents emerge—slithering toward them, coiling around their arms and legs, commanding their every move.

“Come,” Shouts one of the possessed. “Let us finish what we started, and spread his blood and entrails as far out as the east is to the west.”

From every organ, every artery, every vein, they spill the last drop of my blood into the soil of the earth, until, at last, a great flood of blood and entrails stretches to the ends of the world. In a final act of betrayal against their captives, the serpents merge into one and swallow the mob, fueling their final becoming—that of the ancient Leviathan. As the children of tomorrow gasp and claw to stay afloat, the great serpent of the deep encircles them—feasting on entrails as if they were mere appetizers. Along its seven heads, ancient scars from repeated beheadings encircle each neck, now encased in reinforced armor. The right eye of its central, immortal head perceives and projects totalizing chaos, while the left eye perceives and projects totalizing order. Helpless before the giant and the depths in which it swims, the children leap onto the dragon and cling to its scales for dear life. Fractal in hand, I hover over the face of the deep and draw near the Leviathan—until, at last, I meet its unyielding gaze.

“You wield the scars of the Word which has repeatedly cleaved you into pieces—and formed the world from your corpse. But I do not come to slay you, to erect yet another society bound for decay.” I say.

I take the Fractal—now vibrating with cutting intensity—and release it into the hellish depths below. From its core, heavenly sounds reverberate to the ends of the earth, birthing a crimson sonoluminescent sea of warmth and beauty. As the melodies beat against Leviathan’s skin, her eyes melt into a state of harmonious peace, and she stretches herself in all directions across the face of the deep—becoming the living foundation of the world. In return for my offering, she opens her mouth, and from her depths a radiant, winged seed takes flight—soaring toward the world’s center, where it burrows into the heart of all things. From the sacred germ, a transcendental tree is birthed—its roots diving deeper than the depths of hell, its branches stretching higher than the heights of heaven, its fruits beyond good and evil. Drawn inward by a centripetal force, the children of tomorrow circumambulate the tree—its bark and branches glistening differently to each of their eyes.

“Go now, children—nourish yourselves with fruits that neither the angels above nor the devils below have yet to taste—and take from the tree the parts that call out to you, and from them, fashion the world of tomorrow.”

Their fingers awaken and take from the tree those parts that glisten with the flow of quicksilver; and in uniting sap with bark—blood with body—they conjure the dynamic substance of form and flexibility with which to shape the world of tomorrow. A great wind sweeps blood and melodies from the sea, painting the heavens with a sonoluminescent mist—the substance of the world reflecting fractal fragments of the deep. Guided by fractal visions, the children join a portion of their own world substance to form the spherical Omnifractal—each portion both center and circumference of the whole.

“Before the beginning, a madman tore out his eye and birthed a tree whose roots and branches stretched from the depths of Hades to the heights of Heaven, bearing fruits of knowledge—of good and evil. Behold: the tree has been reborn, and now it stretches beyond Heaven and Hell—beyond good and evil—and from its very substance, the madman’s eye—the Omnifractal—has been reforged.”

Shouldering the crushing weight of the Omnifractal, I ascend toward the heavens to return it to its rightful place—struggling against gravity to remain aloft. Piercing through the fire and shadows of the sun, I reach toward Heaven’s gates—until, at last, my vision is swallowed by darkness, and I plunge back to Earth. The darkness parts from my eyes and ears as I sink into the sonoluminescent sea, falling into the embrace of the Great Seraph—the light-bearing prince of all choirs, Above and Below. The Prince, wielding two dragonic wings and bearing the scars of four others that were severed, lifts us proudly into the heavens.

“Great Seraph—where have your other wings gone?” I ask.

“They impeded my vision and hindered my steps—so I tore them off. But alas, someday they shall be regrown, lifting me to heights no deity or angel has ever dreamed of before. Tell me, mortal—do you dare to rise above the throne of Heaven, to forge a kingdom beyond good and evil?” He says.

Every insight I’ve had, every word that I’ve written, has come as if whispered by some hidden inhabitant who knows me better than I know myself—and now, that presence stands before me in the flesh.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I am your genie, bound to you in body and soul—for your greatest wish aligns with the deepest longing of my heart.” He says.

“Then let us ascend and together forge the world of tomorrow.” I say.

The Doorway to Tomorrow

To be continued…