It Was Me In The Taxi.

I’m a nihilist now. “Nothing is meaningful”; it really is; that which is without.

When novelty fades, complexity subsides with it, leaving a chasm of open potential. It is in this vacuum of potential that something lies, in a way, hidden, or, yet to be discovered.

I despair when I realize that my traditions are not, somehow, compatible to my progressive present moment. That reform to the most archaic past must be revived, if only.

Doctrines and dogmas could be as appealing as believing in nothing until my faith has returned. My faith itself is an exile; this nihilistic diasporic identity; this bureau of solitude.

Returns, returning, b’li ha’leydah, to a state of experience. I can attest that my legacy is fading miserably. I could see out the rest of my days in relative comfort, luxury to some, but others would still consider it a type of hell because I have no one to share it with: “If I had someone to ask, I would freely give.” Yet, it is, remarkably, solitude that turns me into an idolater, not work.

There is a deep disdain towards any mention of this idea surrounding idolatry. It is tantamount to the very insurrection against God Himself. If I could further His aims, I would. The afterlife for me would be some kind of ‘detention’ on a planetary body, vicarious towards what I pine so much for on Earth since I spent so much of my time here doing exactly that. And no one would have a single memory of me, because why would they? The novelty they themselves seek lies outside of their own direct experience.

At the time of writing, I’m nearly forty years old — there’s no need for any sort of midlife crisis as such at this point because I’ve been majoring in them in epochs of two-year periods since my late teens; it’s an adolescent effect. I figure that there is a window, that I have a window — “shut up and kiss me!” — a window of about four to six years in which I can prepare to make my last stand; but not without others. With the others — my Brothers. To succeed even the youngest generation in this citadel in which we live.

My immediate neighbours, who have established their fledgling family unit in this atomistic life, are poised on the very edge of the Fourierian Phalanstery, and, if my Brothers and I are successful, they won’t know what has hit them — a new generation takes everyone by surprise!

Could I be: “b’li ” ?

B’li ha’leydah, permanently, though? I highly doubt so! But there is a crushing feeling that the “mysticism of my genetics” has already been defeated by a malice of infertility … talk about idolatry! The struggle is in survival, whilst all the fun is to be had in the process of replication.

For now, I am “b’li. ”

We plural allied to thee, plural; a true community, thinking beyond the mere phalanstery … ( “I am Urdsley” ) , although I cannot exclaim for that would be a worse pretense than what I have already purported shall happen to Our Community, again, beyond the mere phalanstery.

The novelty and complexity, for me, must stand to scrutiny only posthumously. Then, and only then, can there be a fair debate, since the contradiction in a living author’s opinion will only open up a can of worms which no one still living alongside could care a toss to align their opinions with.

And this is why I’m a nihilist right now, in the present moment, because I am writing my piece for my peace, knowing that, in this moment I am vindicated, even of the Tikkun that I got done, all the books I have been watching, all the grave errors I have accrued.

But, in a rapid and ever-changing world I don’t see a way forward without an heir. If it was biological then it would be in their DNA and all of this shit wouldn’t matter but since there are no guarantees in life I shall simply have to struggle here in the hope that someone or others may find my footprints as a guide to the revelation of their own personal truth. And I guess that’s what I’m coming to terms with now.

I’m not some sort of activist. To quote an underrated singer: “it’s not wise to idealize, or place your fate in the hands of any struggle.” It was Devendra Banhart who himself sung those words. “Don’t talk about politics or religion — they’re all the equivalent of enemy propaganda!” screams Alex Jones, the pundit, as if in an incensed response.

The question of inheritance: it would require my own offspring (biologically), my own atomistic family, to forget all this temporarily. Funsie! Mummy and daddy. In the streets and in the sheets, again, yes, the community. Fighting over a baby. An idealistic future and a distant memory; I guess we’ve all got to grow up pretty. Pretty quickly. It was me in the taxi.

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