On Readers

There exist qualities, so intense, so extreme in readers, that no film to date has inspired. As if the words themselves are but a gateway into one’s inner self that no picture is able to express. It is a secret so many have kept safe – not through their silence – but their inability to project the meaning of it. In those quiet reaches every kind of hope and despair, every occurrence of one’s nature, are felt, it is a crescendo so fierce, so explosive, that one has to jump up and scream in their solitude. One wonders why others are not present. Why, when I retreat so deeply into these pages, do I fail to recount to others where I have been when I resurface? And why, upon my return, must I conform once again?

The Death of Tragedy?

How is Man to sanctify himself? Who will return him to his grace? All salvation has, hitherto, called for Man’s redemption. It has always condemned his ambition and undermined his inner valuation of being. But to what end do we seek to purify Man? To make him a servant? Worthy enough to sanctify our redeemers? Who gave Man this power? Who did he murder to acquire it? God? Because God would not sanctify Man? And Man, in dire need of this happiness, this validation of self, thought this judgement unfair – that God did not extend an expected benevolence towards Man? And so Man stole that great power from his tormentor – the validation of self. He became the great thief in the night! The murderer of all misery!

Who else knows of this great theft? Who else questions this sanctity of Man? Who amongst us rejects Man’s salvation after hearing of his rights and privileges? Now that God is dead, must Man not die also? Is now not the hour to arise from our fatal tragedy? Do we not deem this sanctification of being under our current circumstance… redundant?