The writing is on the wall. Luminescent glyphs in an ancient language older than mankind. It's difficult to make out the exact wording, as no memory is able to translate the cryptic forms. But, the message is clearly meant to raise awareness to the present dilemna we face. Perhaps it is directions to locate the escape hatch located in the shadows of solipsist insularity. Perhaps the figures are a portentous warning of an immanent hazard. A phenomenological representation of ontological proportions, similar to inscriptions in the sands of time. The hour glass is draining the last of its grains and awaits inversion as a shadow embraces the last fleeting moments of its essence before sunset. Remnants of Babylon. Artifacts of Atlantis. Memories of Maya. The illusion of singularity and self-hood have corrupted the collective unconsciousness into a cosmic dance of auto destruction and convulsive catastrophism. We crouch behind our own projection of social harmony awaiting the invitation to the killing floor. The infinite fractal of self justification is beginning to falter into oblivion, spinning off on an uncomplimentary course of fatalism. As we brick up the only possible exit to our possible mitigation of industrial doom, we turn our backs on the next generation and join in on the toxic circle jerk of technological tautology. Our immediate convenience is far more important than any long term consideration of consequence. Having tacitly accepted this tenet of existential angst, we no longer even empathize with Chronos and his horde. We passively accept our fate, not even flinching as the vultures start to feed on our eyes. For the bright lights of binary beautification have lulled us into a trance of tragic sedation from the truth. In a slumber, we trod onwards toward the bright light emanating from the spires of a tower which has no name and no quarter for the mortal.
It was once scratched into a wall that we are all god in the process of evolution. Intuitively, this appears to be an accurate description of theoretical modernism. Assuming we are actually progressing through stages of conscious development, this profound graffio mirrors the social illusion of industrial advancement and facilitation. Perhaps all gods are fated to destroy themselves in the fog of self-importance that follows from material recognition and deification. Standing atop the mountainous artificiality we have defined for ourselves as reality, there remains little room for considerations of continuity and deference to our creator. Having consolidated such a concept into our very perceptions of interactivity, we now have convinced ourselves we are gods. We are the process of evolution necessary for our eminence and our folly. We have created ourselves from scratch and thus, feel justified in destroying ourselves. Just as the Ouroborus devours its own tail, we have satisfied ourselves in consuming our own waste. The cyclical helix of time spirals downwards into eschatological vestiges of reconciliation. The idiot daemon goddess awakes and begins her devastating dervish swirl of deconstruction. As we fuck ourselves in succession, we are oblivious to the blade of Damocles perched immanently above our heads. Indeed, there can be nothing joyous for the person over whom some fear always looms. The sword sways in the wake of the daemon goddesses dance and begins its perilous descent into the abyss of being.
