Thrownness, Black Matter and the Promise of Bliss

If all the elements, which we find in the totality of the 3D world, are ephemeral manifestations of creation from nothingness, then only nothingness and its infinite emptiness are the only sources of depth. This is just a logical conclusion.

In the beginning, we get thrown out of the womb and shelter into a climate quite changeable. Not a bone between our teeth, like stray dogs. The lust for life overwhelms us so much that we become paralyzed and flabby. Having to be in one place at a time and thinking about one thing at a time, nothing seems to resemble where we came from. The landscape becomes a spiral made of honey and cyanide. We are left with the hope of ever returning, but that is now impossible. We never seem to leave it completely. We never abandon anything completely: neither our most lucid virtues, our most remote desires, nor our longing to live forever: everything seems to accumulate until we return someday to that singularity now replicated in the matter. We live in the body of an entity fascinated with replicating itself. Those with obsessive personalities are their closest children. They live with the hope that, someday, they may reach that special throne. For they need only look directly at it and demand it.

But who dare look directly at the maelstrom of flesh, beings, and spirits circling in the confines of time? It takes some courage. The pigeons colliding against the glass of airplanes are the perfect metaphor for what, at some point, human beings become. Collision should incite excitement, not death. Where does life come from, if not from the collision between two organs? Those afraid to collide, to collide minds, spirits, saliva and thorax, are building their prison cell. Yet, this is the default mode of existence. Some call them NPCs (Non Playable Characters) in a videogame-like metaphor. This is the type of humans who live on autopilot, repeating the same behaviors without questioning the why or the cultural elements given to them since birth. The opposite is those who take anomalous action daily, comparable, perhaps, with the Fool archetype we have all seen in card decks.

This foulness imposes itself as a disruptive force that has decided to look directly at life outside the womb rather than evade it through NPC behavior. In European culture, there is a term known as “the village´s fool” to describe nothing less than the genius who flies above the regular and predictable and brings new colors and shapes to the world in an opposite way to that of the average Joe. In many ways, he is blessed. Yet, he doesn’t have the apparent certainty of day-to-day life, nor can he enjoy a receptive attitude from his peers. Whether he cares about that depends highly on his extroverted or introverted nature, but that would be a theme for another analysis.

On the other hand, nature will not bless with the gifts of life those who do not wish to emulate life itself. Love will not come for the one who does not emulate love. All the possibilities of blissful and enlightening universes are open, but who takes them? Who dares, with all his essence and vitality, to throw himself into the circle of flesh and beings that spin incessantly in time? Who dares to return to himself, to singularity? Who of us, excited beings in the process of enlightenment, would dare to enter the forbidden realm? We would dwell into it again, and again, and again, and again, and again until the end is indistinguishable from the beginning; perhaps then the singularity of existence would be attracted enough to devour us, and perhaps this time, just this time, it would never throw us out again.

It is important to consider that the concept of thrownness, as understood by Heideggerian terms, is quite confusing. The search for depth beyond the ephemeral and sensual instant is even more confusing. Let’s imagine for a second that, indeed, romance is an existential patch meant to heal existential anxiety temporarily, that intimacy is nothing short of a transactional good, that friendships are small false idols that we build to feel accepted within the confines of an unpredictable world, that entheogens are brief glimpses of death, that family relationships are biological arbitrariness meant to restrict our minds from flying too far away from the tribe, that reason is sophisticated sophistry capable of justifying anything, and finally that emotionality is a rude child crying out for a pinch.

If all the elements, which we find in the totality of the 3D world, are ephemeral manifestations of creation from nothingness, then only nothingness and its infinite emptiness are the only sources of depth. This is just a logical conclusion.

In other words, beyond the Thanatos drive, death itself, and nothingness themselves, there is no depth of any kind. What we will always remember until the last of our days will be those small encounters with the annulment of our being: the absorption of our consciousness in an exquisite aesthetic experience, the Dionysian dementia of bliss, the mystical ecstasy even in the darkest of times, for they foretell the coming of a much-promised judgment day. Even the relational contact with the beloved other whose company is pleasing to us constitutes a forgetfulness of the self, a daring, a distraction, a mere rest from what constitutes the existential anguish of day-to-day life.

The consciousness of thrownness towards life, the constant intertwining with death, and the supremacy of emptiness help us gain a certain orientation and flee from the clutches of the false daily dichotomies. It delivers us from the phenomena that come, go, return, and torment us. There will be moments of maximum enjoyment, of maximum oblivion of life itself, and it is in those moments that we must be grateful to the infinite matrix that underlies everything else, but which is itself the most brutal black matter, destroyer of everything, creator of everything, absent of absolutely nothing. Among our existential thrownness, we must always be grateful for the dark bliss underlying it all.

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