I wonder where I am now: Not stoic, or sensitive, or some whore to take every fucking strike across the face he can. Now: some panoply of forgotten emotional crises aaaaand walls crumbling, night setting in around my eyes, but offering no comfort of disappearance as salvation. Now, a hauntology with a resonance which lets the incoherence and void of dynamism and becoming linger into consciousness, as an absent presence, present and not present: tracings from the past which rupture (in haunting) the present to re-orient futural experience as a destructive return of the Same, a traumatic moto perpetuo, ever understanding present freedom as nothing more than a phantomic irruption producing projectural finitude because it is grounded in what
was. Causality as trauma? An internal secret,
not to be discovered because it is undiscoverable, unconcealable: uncovering, never presenting a naked truth but a Moebius strip hall of mirrors or, in short, spectrality. Heidegger exorcised it with onto-theology: to acknowledge, at base, the 'Mystery', wherein we displace the ghost with god.
May I suggest a Sun Prince?
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