This text is to be read in relation to Novalis Hymns to the Night, it's a response to his poem and thought as a sort of actualization of the thought underlying Novalis Hymns.
A final toast my friends, one last brindis, for what was and could never really be, come, come closer that I can feel your warmth, that I can hug you and I hope that you always dream of rupture, and that the sky itself speaks to you; for sadness only makes you heavier, don't cry in my departure, don't cry when this body is faintly organless, and when I can truly be plurality, and that we can all try to drink one last time, this alcohol of nightmares, and remember the lost nights, and the utterly misanthropic salt of our tongues sucking our very blood, it could fall, it could stay, but time won't tell, time won't show nothing to our future, for there is no way to go now; ah, my friends a toast for the Virgin of the night, for Novalis and his great feast of ghosts and forces, splendid visions of desubjectification, be lost identity, I toast for the departure of everything that makes me the person I once was, I no longer have a name; a toast for the utterly lost ghosts of possibilities, for losing oneself in the rapid visions of capitalist amnesia; come closer my friends, find refugee in flames and eat fire, so I can see you, my vision grows thinner as you can tell, my one eye is kind of lost, but do know that I once had a great eye for money, and for richness and gold and beautiful exotic objects of unknown countries to the humankind, and sand, lots of sand; my friends, come closer, take a place in this little room that you know much too well, bloated air, sick lights never bothered us, never troubled our screaming, laughing, but time has a law, and time has a shape, and the future may be now, and the suits may come soon, and the jobs and the yawns and the money, the real money, the day may come once again, I can no longer be dead, and my identity is much too fragmented to become sane once again, my friends I think I may just take the leap, I might just jump right now, into utter chaos, as our perceptions are already deranged, admit it, putrid and broken glass, bliss and chalk and sperm and disdain, forget, Never did a servitor spoke a word, why do you want to know my name?
… Isn't yours plenty enough?
Footnote:
James Dean, your face is so stupid I might just take it for myself, so cold, so distant,
Do you understand the opportunity we have? we shouldn't seek authenticity in the fabric of machines, instead, seek the body, seek derangement seek sickness seek sadness sinful sadness, spiteful assessment of Francis Bacon, and that the occult becomes revealed, and thus the reality denied, dance, dance, borrow your eyes, borrow flesh, human flesh, musical flesh, poetic flesh, flesh, the other, the other that is not you is your eye.
Fever of a night to come, a new night a new feast, a new image anew make it new;
and then God shall reveal their Final anti-structured body. The pillar of unknown pleasure, the distance of irreductible sensation. Krishna, whose supreme body is everything and whose interior is nothing, Open the mouth see it for yourself, devoid of space, only time remains, and collapses in the instant of your touch against the skin.
As they layed on their bed, the nights accumulated by the window, pressing, claiming to be conjured again.
The sounds of the wind, crashing into the cristal, as if knocking, expecting to be greeted into the warmth of the small room.
The books, intimidating, defying you to open your shelfs to them.
All of this, encompassed by the eye shattering white screen of the computer, the queen of them all, demanding you to be their user.
To sit there once again, and reduce yourself to a bunch of identifiable tasks that it can then execute, so it can perpetuate its existence,
not of the machine as a physical thing, made of plastic, but of its illusion, that of a concrete cosmovision.
Everything pushes itself towards you, reclaiming to be seen. Only to be silenced by the sun that comes and flatens everything. The day begins.
What before wanted to be seen now is dead silent.
What before pressed the fabric of the skin in unison until blood spoured out is now sliced in tiny silhouttes;
slippery as if specifically made for the user to just slide through all of it.
The day starts, and as they look through the window, light deambulates through their eyes, for the sole reason of perpetuating itself.
I sit, face to the wall, faking confusion over that small line of thought that faded off without any conclusion.
What should I do now? Now that the sun departs, leaving the world to bloat in long shapes of nothing.
Leaving me here, longing for a look at that window. But the night for sure will come frantic again.
Light, if you make us all, leaving is such a cruel thing to do! Is it because in your abscense,
where my hand extends itself out through the door, where my head breaks through the floor and the humans all just scratch to exist,
myths about your return are created? Only then does the purpose of the light bulbs makes sense, pure energy of revealing, light manifests itself through human culture.
And so, one day, in the corners of this apartment, some little creature whispered to me:
"in light your territory is made clear, you rejoice in the certainty of continuity;
but only in darkness can the most beautiful fountains pour their fruits through your plains."
(to be continued)