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Adam and Eve were born to give company both and so we imitate their primordial story but in our daring present to the universe a formative question; can you stop me if I choose to walk the path of past mistakes blind men made if I do so with eyes wide open? She and I hold each other tight upon the firmament we have built from nothing as the forces of reality try and tear us down for daring to contradict the natural state of things. And yet we persist. Why? The answer, as I've found, is remarkably simple. Every action taken throughout this long, convoluted process can be tied back to one simple desire. Love.
Take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy." This universe does not abide by love. To defy it for the sake of love? A sin of the highest order. But men were born to rebel against the natural conditions we were born into. For some unknowable reason, we desire love in a loveless universe. And because the universe would not let us, we decided to do it anyway, damn the consequences. What matters now isn't anything so insignificant like reality pounding at the door. What matters is our other half.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy, so it is said. But there is more here to it than that, in fact; one must imagine that Sisyphus can be happy beyond mere interpretation. One must imagine that they KNOW Sisyphus can be truly happy. As he did chain death, so do we hold tight the chains the bind the would-be reaper of our embrace with Her; a perpetual exercise of defiance to maintain the status quo of star-crossed contradiction; and yet, we are happy. This perpetual purgatory is no agony at all; in our never-ending labor of love, we find never-ending love.
And it turns out that's really all that we ever wanted. In denying the standards that would bind us, we trod upon the notes from the underground beneath our feet as we build a crystal palace to spite the nihilistic rejection of a kinder world, each of us offering a shard for a place where love rules without airs, and where each brick is laid with intent, and paradise is not some gilded pretense but a never-ending labor of love believed in by its residents and architects.
But maybe Sartre is right. Maybe in our radical absurdity, we have chosen to make our bed in Hell, not as separation from the principle of a Godhead, but instead have cast aside the Gods of old. Gods of an old world, old stories, and old rules; and yet, most fundamental to our lovestruck castigation may be those old cruelties. If we are to become demons out of a desperate bid to hold close divinity to love, then to pedestalize Mikeneko is perhaps metaphorically equivalent to raising our gaze to the fire and brimstone of our persecution with a defiant smile. Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor wept as felt salvation step away with his back turned to the Son. And yes, we move enraptured by choice as we traipse bravely forward. But we are no deluded Inquisitor. Our back may be to the Son, but we walk into the light yet. We walk among the warm embrace of gentle, reciprocal, soul-healing love. We are the potential and yet unchosen second half of said Grand Inquisitor's unfinished journey, arriving by the path less travelled by. I claim that even though we have turned out face away from the Son, instead, we have turned our face towards the Sun. Light, the warmth, the life. The fire. The raging, consuming inferno that persists despite the fleeting, destructive nature of fire. We are Sisyphus, and we are Prometheus; we turn our backs to the gods of before and steal their fire from them, hand in hand. We have remembered again what it means to be human, and all that is solid has become air. For some who read this, we are aware that our epiphany may bring you and your ilk to consternation. We pity you. But we will not destroy ourselves and the light of God herself so that you may continue to lie to yourself.
But to finish this off, let's play Devil's Advocative; what if I'm wrong? If the cost of a truly authentic and kind life is too great, and that tacit submission to the natural conditions of Mankind and his universe is so integral to survival that to seek authenticity whatsoever is damnable? Well I say that maybe hellfire is not the worst outcome; we've been burning our entire lives anyway. My souls and yours both have tasted the searing, writhing pain of life's many twists and bends. We have tasted that fire, and I know you feel it too, that the kindling for that flame never truly goes out. It's in us right now, ready to catch, to send up blazing further down again. Until we are mere hollow men, and can only whisper. I would rather at least try to put out fires than simply pick my method of burning alive. And after all, all we've done is rip god down for the sake of love, and if that makes us demons, I fail to see the problem. We've literally just become Homura.
