#1 ·
Once time reaches its saturation point, things begin to emerge—man-made objects serving as desperate technical extensions of existence itself. Metaphysics acts as a numerical placeholder for the void in our future, primarily because the human vision of it has failed. History is being regressed into a machine-driven magic, returning us to primitive cults and totems shaped by external nature, though this time the "little gods" are manufactured. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, this mathematical mythology lacks any inherent dynamism. It can exist as a separate entity, but it cannot usurp its designated role to replace God. What humans create can never surpass them; at most, it can only become a mirror of themselves. This fear of alienated technology is fundamentally a fear of nature, yet there is a massive difference in who holds the reins: Homo sapiens, in their characteristic arrogance, have chosen the very tools that will facilitate their own extinction. It seems people have voluntarily—or perhaps subconsciously—stifled their own freedom, surrendering it to something residing purely in the realm of potentiality. We have handed control to simple, logical categories that mediate and translate reality. Given the average consumer's IQ, this mediation must be profane and obscene; it simulates transcendence through an overwhelming abundance of simplicity, effectively negating all ethical and aesthetic value. The fear of technology is caused by the death of axiology, not the other way around. There is no evidence to suggest otherwise.
Perhaps the individual in this chaotic, godless world—and thus a world devoid of conscience—is only possible as a persona threatened by a "Big Brother." But today, that threat is absolute, and there is no significant adversary left to turn the individual's will toward a revolution. The world has dissolved like late-stage Rome, making it impossible for any subcultural or social movement to achieve planetary scale. Everyone is already globally synchronized, broadcasting on secondary channels. No collective project can sway a population that is already fully supplied with basic necessities and information. However, this chromatic, cathode-ray madness—this frantic attempt to forget the heavy burden of hatred—isn't something we who seek transformation should focus on. We simply want to clear away the mud, charging blindly toward the plaza.
The abyss of aggressive advertising—a world of colors, faces, sounds, and attitudes—cannot be critiqued from any external vantage point. It is an exclusively political manifestation of "being-here," a coexistence where even cryptophilia becomes meaningless. Within these familiar forms, endless layers of "exclusive existence" are imposed, offering highly questionable versions of intimate acts and feelings. The problem arises when the will attempts to step out of the mud of this modern pseudo-polis. People suffocating within these personas never trigger true conflict. In our case, radical negation is often mistaken for reflection, but it leads nowhere. All that remains is mere recognition and protest—a resistance against a fake hyper-diversity running on the same conveyor belt, powered by the petty interests of massive egos and the charisma of mediocre daredevils. It is a manipulation of every species that escaped control, where interests serve merely as the impulse driving the remnants of a Gulag. These forces produce consequences far more lasting than their intended motives. Even when masked by the "sacred" economy, these narrow interests require massive amounts of mechanical-populist labor to function. This generates a mindless surge of "public opinion," which in turn dethrones the consciousness of every actor involved. It turns the participants into simple psychotics, mere reflections clinging to a single illusion of control. The "I" becomes the "you," so that together, on a zero-sum ground, they become the "it"—a thing, a nothingness. They become a fabricated adverb acting as a fingerprint of the self, while everything is crushed by an unknown "id." We will be lost on the way. And who would bother to remember that the beginning was once a powerful will to find the timeless? This is clearly the end; why would a starting strategy matter now?
It is like being at the source, where character is destiny—a thousand different meanings standing in the foyer of a two-millennium-long solipsistic culture. Here, the subject’s self-awareness, the definition of morality against one's stances, and the absolute freedom within the necessity of rational perception are all that remain.
Fate isn't some cosmic script written in the stars. It can't be unmasked by prophets peering through the veil of the physical world via divine will. The masters of the dreamscape—that other realm—are simply searching for a straight line along a crooked path of revelation. This path is inherently unstable because it is rooted in character. Character is something deeply immanent and volatile; it is predetermined yet free enough to shatter any necessity. It constantly collapses back into lower forms of existence, undoing the tension between the individual and the object, the self and the possession. It is purely, excessively human.
The answer to this existential riddle lies in character. Everything else is just a lowered curtain. Adding the burden of freedom is merely a virus infecting an already weakened immune system—the fractured character of the new millennium. In the cheap slang of our era, people strip away the meaning of absolute ethical ideals. These ideals are the true reality of a whole, 100% individual, far removed from the external image, the view from above, or those rare moments of self-sacrifice. They are lost in the flashes of "lies" within the "truth" of a world blurred by cryptometaphysics.
However, this sentence is merely an answer. It doesn't hint at a sequel; rather, it is the product of profound disappointment. It stems from an inability to weigh oneself, the world, history, freedom, or survival. Character, as a collection of traits, isn't fate itself. It isn't a choice leading to optimistic growth. Instead, character is fate *to* a person, or fate *for* a person. To emphasize: if we detect a diseased state in a famous character, it is essentially a punishment. Beyond that, nothing else is needed to muddy fate or amplify the tragedy of existence. Here, man is a finished meaning—a total nothingness. He is a hollow concept with a single possible outcome: hopelessness and loss. Like the world and everything derived from it, he is a degraded concept.
Man has no fate. Character is his only sufficient fate.
The Perils of Confession
Thoughts exist in three forms: spoken (in marketplaces), written (in libraries), and sold—atemporalized and tucked into the drawers of the subconscious. Sometimes they seem lost forever, only to return uninvited as altered fragments of the same eternal questions. Spoken thoughts are rare; they are hard to shield from oblivion. Some claim they don't even exist. There are fewer and fewer people who truly speak, and more and more who certainly write. Writing provides a sanctuary. Once a question is posed, it serves as enough resolution for a person. What else is there to do when countless thoughts are sold off through a simulated flow of time? A single sentence, even if it doesn't live alongside others, creates finality. Though it cannot speak, it stands guard against wandering minds. Yet, it creates a rift, forming its own lost world. Small epigons of papyrus desperately chase this eschatology. Let it be fragmented, jumbled, prolonged, or unwritten, until it finally structures itself into something non-dead. Do not read it aloud, lest it dissipate, and do not seek meaning between the lines. The structure is the letters themselves. Something imagined far away, vast, perhaps within me? Always within you. What is new here?
New Babylon
Regarding the etymology of the word *glossa*: 1) Originally: a dark, obscure word requiring interpretation; implying uncertainty, where language begins as wonder, leading to 2) Subsequently: interpretation or explanation—the removal of the uncertainty inherent in wonder, which is the most general way of presenting the *glossa* (the interpretation) itself. The socio-semantic framework of speech does not allow for lingering uncertainty. Instead, that initial, incomprehensible wonder is radically transformed (not in a temporal sense) into the mere interpretation of the word's origin, thereby filling it with content. Here, however, the word (whether a *glossa* or otherwise) is speech transposed into a transparent form of a specific language, dialect, or slang; this allows the involution we are discussing to emerge from this darkness of meaning as 3) In everyday life, an acerbic or malicious remark. Within this fractal range, the word has gained its written history. Since the world is determined by history (and vice versa), this history takes the shape of speech, pointing toward 3) malicious remarks regarding all forms of 2) interpretation and explanation, especially regarding 1) the ambiguity of every wonder. I found myself in this position while reading a semantic sketch that I intended to 2) interpret as an involution in the case of the word *glossa*.😛
A stray thought, tossed out carelessly in a room, eventually finds its way to someone else. As it spreads, it reaches a primal semantic state—returning to the simplest possible pattern of human communication. Social language is always dead serious. News lacks irony; instead, it’s been demonized. That’s why you can’t explain anything to anyone. Everything is explainable, which means speech itself doesn't struggle with the "objectivity" of a narrative. Only living speech is real. It’s a world where nothing moves, a world that exists nowhere. Listen to me: schizophrenia isn't a thing anymore. What used to be called madness can actually be powerful. It isn't a disease. It’s a constant. Or perhaps, the whole world is just sick.
PHILOSOPHY
Perhaps the individual in this chaotic, godless world—and thus a world devoid of conscience—is only possible as a persona threatened by a "Big Brother." But today, that threat is absolute, and there is no significant adversary left to turn the individual's will toward a revolution. The world has dissolved like late-stage Rome, making it impossible for any subcultural or social movement to achieve planetary scale. Everyone is already globally synchronized, broadcasting on secondary channels. No collective project can sway a population that is already fully supplied with basic necessities and information. However, this chromatic, cathode-ray madness—this frantic attempt to forget the heavy burden of hatred—isn't something we who seek transformation should focus on. We simply want to clear away the mud, charging blindly toward the plaza.
The abyss of aggressive advertising—a world of colors, faces, sounds, and attitudes—cannot be critiqued from any external vantage point. It is an exclusively political manifestation of "being-here," a coexistence where even cryptophilia becomes meaningless. Within these familiar forms, endless layers of "exclusive existence" are imposed, offering highly questionable versions of intimate acts and feelings. The problem arises when the will attempts to step out of the mud of this modern pseudo-polis. People suffocating within these personas never trigger true conflict. In our case, radical negation is often mistaken for reflection, but it leads nowhere. All that remains is mere recognition and protest—a resistance against a fake hyper-diversity running on the same conveyor belt, powered by the petty interests of massive egos and the charisma of mediocre daredevils. It is a manipulation of every species that escaped control, where interests serve merely as the impulse driving the remnants of a Gulag. These forces produce consequences far more lasting than their intended motives. Even when masked by the "sacred" economy, these narrow interests require massive amounts of mechanical-populist labor to function. This generates a mindless surge of "public opinion," which in turn dethrones the consciousness of every actor involved. It turns the participants into simple psychotics, mere reflections clinging to a single illusion of control. The "I" becomes the "you," so that together, on a zero-sum ground, they become the "it"—a thing, a nothingness. They become a fabricated adverb acting as a fingerprint of the self, while everything is crushed by an unknown "id." We will be lost on the way. And who would bother to remember that the beginning was once a powerful will to find the timeless? This is clearly the end; why would a starting strategy matter now?
It is like being at the source, where character is destiny—a thousand different meanings standing in the foyer of a two-millennium-long solipsistic culture. Here, the subject’s self-awareness, the definition of morality against one's stances, and the absolute freedom within the necessity of rational perception are all that remain.
Fate isn't some cosmic script written in the stars. It can't be unmasked by prophets peering through the veil of the physical world via divine will. The masters of the dreamscape—that other realm—are simply searching for a straight line along a crooked path of revelation. This path is inherently unstable because it is rooted in character. Character is something deeply immanent and volatile; it is predetermined yet free enough to shatter any necessity. It constantly collapses back into lower forms of existence, undoing the tension between the individual and the object, the self and the possession. It is purely, excessively human.
The answer to this existential riddle lies in character. Everything else is just a lowered curtain. Adding the burden of freedom is merely a virus infecting an already weakened immune system—the fractured character of the new millennium. In the cheap slang of our era, people strip away the meaning of absolute ethical ideals. These ideals are the true reality of a whole, 100% individual, far removed from the external image, the view from above, or those rare moments of self-sacrifice. They are lost in the flashes of "lies" within the "truth" of a world blurred by cryptometaphysics.
However, this sentence is merely an answer. It doesn't hint at a sequel; rather, it is the product of profound disappointment. It stems from an inability to weigh oneself, the world, history, freedom, or survival. Character, as a collection of traits, isn't fate itself. It isn't a choice leading to optimistic growth. Instead, character is fate *to* a person, or fate *for* a person. To emphasize: if we detect a diseased state in a famous character, it is essentially a punishment. Beyond that, nothing else is needed to muddy fate or amplify the tragedy of existence. Here, man is a finished meaning—a total nothingness. He is a hollow concept with a single possible outcome: hopelessness and loss. Like the world and everything derived from it, he is a degraded concept.
Man has no fate. Character is his only sufficient fate.
The Perils of Confession
Thoughts exist in three forms: spoken (in marketplaces), written (in libraries), and sold—atemporalized and tucked into the drawers of the subconscious. Sometimes they seem lost forever, only to return uninvited as altered fragments of the same eternal questions. Spoken thoughts are rare; they are hard to shield from oblivion. Some claim they don't even exist. There are fewer and fewer people who truly speak, and more and more who certainly write. Writing provides a sanctuary. Once a question is posed, it serves as enough resolution for a person. What else is there to do when countless thoughts are sold off through a simulated flow of time? A single sentence, even if it doesn't live alongside others, creates finality. Though it cannot speak, it stands guard against wandering minds. Yet, it creates a rift, forming its own lost world. Small epigons of papyrus desperately chase this eschatology. Let it be fragmented, jumbled, prolonged, or unwritten, until it finally structures itself into something non-dead. Do not read it aloud, lest it dissipate, and do not seek meaning between the lines. The structure is the letters themselves. Something imagined far away, vast, perhaps within me? Always within you. What is new here?
New Babylon
Regarding the etymology of the word *glossa*: 1) Originally: a dark, obscure word requiring interpretation; implying uncertainty, where language begins as wonder, leading to 2) Subsequently: interpretation or explanation—the removal of the uncertainty inherent in wonder, which is the most general way of presenting the *glossa* (the interpretation) itself. The socio-semantic framework of speech does not allow for lingering uncertainty. Instead, that initial, incomprehensible wonder is radically transformed (not in a temporal sense) into the mere interpretation of the word's origin, thereby filling it with content. Here, however, the word (whether a *glossa* or otherwise) is speech transposed into a transparent form of a specific language, dialect, or slang; this allows the involution we are discussing to emerge from this darkness of meaning as 3) In everyday life, an acerbic or malicious remark. Within this fractal range, the word has gained its written history. Since the world is determined by history (and vice versa), this history takes the shape of speech, pointing toward 3) malicious remarks regarding all forms of 2) interpretation and explanation, especially regarding 1) the ambiguity of every wonder. I found myself in this position while reading a semantic sketch that I intended to 2) interpret as an involution in the case of the word *glossa*.😛
A stray thought, tossed out carelessly in a room, eventually finds its way to someone else. As it spreads, it reaches a primal semantic state—returning to the simplest possible pattern of human communication. Social language is always dead serious. News lacks irony; instead, it’s been demonized. That’s why you can’t explain anything to anyone. Everything is explainable, which means speech itself doesn't struggle with the "objectivity" of a narrative. Only living speech is real. It’s a world where nothing moves, a world that exists nowhere. Listen to me: schizophrenia isn't a thing anymore. What used to be called madness can actually be powerful. It isn't a disease. It’s a constant. Or perhaps, the whole world is just sick.
PHILOSOPHY