Good philosophy is as much intentional meaning as it is Freudian slips of genius, so that any given text may surpass an author and his intentions.
The only one who Always comforts me, inevitable. No matter if I embarrass myself, if I fail, if my life turns out to not be what I wanted, you’re on my mind. You never judge, you can’t. We all meet you sooner or later, and we’re all united with your help. All equal. A beautiful egalitarian Utopia. A reality tho, no fantasy. Doubt, fear, no matter, I’ll keep you near. Close to my heart. And can’t wait for the moment you embrace me. Like everyone who has ever been. After all.. we’re all already doomed anyway. Just chatting in the waiting room. There’s nothing cold about you, rubbish. Nothing depressing. Death is life. Death is truth. Life is Death.
Zwei Dinge gibt es zu viel auf der Welt: Männer und Autos
Sometimes I feel equal amounts of nostalgia and utter terror when I ponder how today truth is sacked, destroyed, replaced with nothingness and we just keep on keeping on as if nothing happened, as if someone told a really offensive joke, but you’re ignoring it in order not to create too tense a situation, and slowly but surely all those offensive jokes stack, creep up on you, and make you unsure whether or not they contained some kernel of truth. It’s moments like that when I have this cathartic instinct that, in fact, nothing is being eroded, there never was any truth to anything, that nothing of value is being lost, because all there ever was is beauty (or love, really, call it what you want) and we project all kinds of desires onto beauty, like being real, being true, being innocent, being pure, being absolutely unique, and just about anything imagineable. It’s these kind of ambiguities that keep my mind restless and always paranoid, on edge, it’s our thoughts that make us (sometimes deliberately) fall into trapholes in order for us to see, experience, the dungeon that is consciousness.
It’s perhaps almost a law of nature that things corrupt over time. Capitalism is the ultimate feedback loop, the glorified machinery that eats us up and spits us out. It’s at a point where we’re no longer examining any control over markets, but rather the silent hand is pulling our strings, we are the ones being played, that the glorious cyclical ass2mouthparty begins. Private interests manipulate politicians and media. They, in return, demand a piece of the pie and are sucked in, chewed up, shat out into the next mouth. Advertisement seeps into our minds, popular culture slowly builds up the subconscious hegemony of desire. We feed back into the loop, everything gets washed up and tarnished. We’re no longer innocent or passive, we are not the cogs, not the rats, but we are fundamentally the machinery, we are the simulation, we live it and we breathe it. The struggle against capitalism is quixotic. We’ve become worse than cannibals, autocannibals, consuming ourselves and all meaning and truth.
Baudrillard is the kind of philosopher that pops by your house, produces a huge log of shit on your dining table and then leaves without comment.
Is us laughing about Romans drinking out of lead chalices while we’re doing much worse