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C / Cryptodira / Dante's Inspiration


The aporia of bourgeois ressentiment:
Because I am alive in a body that will die
Because there is a god that cannot be m(I)ne
Because there hides death in punctuation and pause
Because this miracle is just oh so much noise

Because my shame is that I'm an object in the others gaze:
I too long for a paradise which is confirmed by their torment.
I too am born of primordial hate.

There are so many people,
so there's so much profit to make off of them.
There are so many people,
but they're making so much noise.

I can't be happy with God if it means I cannot be one,
and I can much less share one with the masses.
All God can do is dampen my restless circulations.
If I stop moving, I'll be crowded out.

I can't bear the thought that someone else could save me.
I would rather bask in a misery of my own choosing.
Amor Fati, I love of my own prison bars, because they're mine.
Freedom and bondage congeal in all I see, as far as I can see.

Because my mind has no private life
Because I'm conferred by the others eyes
Because I need that mirror to feel satiated
I too am born of primordial hate.

My pleasures undo my invested sense of self
as I'm tossed from one identity to the other.
Even in my proudest displays of narcissism
I take value from the good faith of the other.
Even in solitude, I need to be looked at to see myself;
I need you to look at me, but cannot stand being seen.
The only solution is to sell my image.

Even then I am displaced outside the safe sanctions of Self
by the very chains of signification which I utilize
for the sake of communication, exchanges and warfare.
The discontents of the Self institute its structure.
As the “I” speaks, as it wants and needs, it demands
indivisible and unconditional attention, but on the
condition of this divided and dividing demand.

Hell is other people. But I am other people.
I am all their words. I am all their acts.
I synthesize with them, even in my isolation.
All of their Being is the blessing of my being.
All of their body gives me my language.
Hell is me.
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