Stepping into history was a mistake. Discovering the question was a mistake. Seeking answers was a mistake.
We are now like stray animals, retrogressed from primeval men, lurking in nothingness with only a linear perception of time-space that begins with birth and ends with death, trying to peer into tomorrow with the tools of reason and science: projections, extrapolations and assumptions.
Days, trapped between what it was and what it will be, echo with the dullness of life. All life, not just huma life, is dull: repetitive, mundane, ever changing into nothing but clay.
But death is not the end, and yet we see it as such. No wander we are all so confused and stupid, so pretentious and simple in our approach towards ourselves and the Universe. Death is nothing but a word, another illusion in a series of lies upon which human history built its foundations.
Progress, autonomy and importance, all lies that are politicised in an attempt to find meaning on this Earth. But there is no meaning behind any of these facades.
The world of ideas, that sits on the world of stuff, contains nothing but false paths that horizontally move in circles but never breach vertically to transcend.
Built by men for men, ideas and things have become increasingly practical. The era of the soul made way to the age of concreteness, exactity and certainty. Practicality has killed meaning: now, everything is function over form.
One of these practicalities is the future. Most of our lives we are told and shaped to look towards, believe in and think about the future: plan for tomorrow, think about tomorrow, tomorrow is going to be better, tomorrow is another day, the future will thank you, think about the unborn, think about the future, your future, build a career, have a pension because tomorrow is coming, tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…
What is at the basis of this propensity to look towards the future? Only one answer comes to mind: hope.
Our desperation to be more, to live and not just to exist, coupled with our pathological fears of missing out, of pain, of death, of the unknown, all of this is a fertile psychological ground for hope to take roots and blossom.
And so, with hope, we marched bravely through the forests of time, building mostly out of chance, through wars and statues, what we call civilisation. And from this concoction of myths and facts, technology evolved and eventually killed the gods with its promise to bring us closer to the elusive future.
“Tomorrow”, the gadgets whispered, “tomorrow is more, tomorrow is better, tomorrow is near”.
Emboldened by this promise, we multiplied, and continue to do so more than ever, just so that tomorrow can be reached. To ensure that we are on the right path, we made up laws which we pretended to be objective, failing to understand that objectivity does not belong to men but to the Universe, to the gods we killed with our pretentious toys.
And now we look, from the small window of our prison built by our minds, at the lost ways of life that could have set us free from the burden of hope, free from the shackles of the future.
However, we sink deeper into the night of history.
Now, we are in the future – the future of the early 2000s, the late 1990s, and all the years prior to this day. Looking back, do you want the future knowing how it is? Marching slowly towards totalitarianism, supported willingly by so many people that fear death and love technology, fuelled by politicians with psychopathic smiles of empathy and unity, and financed by a citadel of corporate cartels that threaten to open the gates of hell on dissidents.
It all got concrete fast, didn’t it?
What about the future?
Hope? Yes. Hope can do wonders, even to those suffocating on their own puss in frozen gulags built by other people to keep them at bay because they suffer from some sort of disease, often not of flesh, but of mind: dangerous ideas are the worst plague for our intellectual, well-behaved and obedient civilisation.
What about the future?
The silence of the mountains, the lost sheep wondering through dark woods to find water and shelter, the trails on the beach, the lonely islands and the depths of the oceans, is there the future?
Or perhaps in the tall glass towers of modern, hyper-fast, ultra-productive megacities that have mushroomed over all continents, creating a new race of people: the careerists, forever concerned about their future in some company or government department, drinking late and eating salty pre-packaged foods. Do they hold the way to the future?
Let’s ask the dogs, our dearest friends, if they know what is happening with the future.
The dogs said to ask the poets, the painters and all other artists. It is perhaps in their forms of meditation put on paper or canvas or sang out loud that the future rests.
A quick revision of mankind’s artistic achievements reveals that the future is not there. Only dead dreams, aspirations and saddening searches, often mutations of the collective unconscious repressed by laws in the name of progress and order, but there is no future in these works of art.
What if I tell you that there is no future as long as we are alive, that time is not linear, and history does not exist either? Would you stop caring and thinking about the future?
The future is in the cemeteries, buried in graves with white or grey stones on top of them, sometimes with a brief description of the small but important manifestation of the Universe that ended its journey here.