The Death of We

You are not my comrade, nor my friend, we do not travel together in a school or coterie, a class or an age. Our similarities are accidents, they are non-existent parts. My writing is a fiat, my desires are a fiat- you do not exist except as ground to my actions. If you are to be used, you will be used, otherwise you are, in your terms, to be abused.

I will accept a 'common' language in so far as it moulds to my will, otherwise I will stretch, bend and reject it. I will decree the 'new' and the 'now', you have no declarative power. I will designate what is 'progression', what is 'regression', the forces of your existence will be judged by me, if I allow your existence.

It is not cruelty thus, it is reality. I will not accept any other authority. Sentimentality is a weakness fit merely for the childish and the doting. Let the strong create , the weak react and suffer their illusions.

I shall now happily deny anything but myself. The second and third persons are creations of my will, if I will sanction them. I do not accept the illusion of my own subjectivity. Only the weak do so, and I am satisfied that they remain such willing slaves, ha! Let them, you, crave their comfort, intimacy, 'communion' with each other, with the created supereminent 'other' they slacken their meagre stance to bow to! Pah to their beliefs in humanity, progress, mercy, knowledge, learning! These are sops to keep them asleep. You.

What will follow directly from my pen will be my one concession to your fragility. It will be my preparation for your subjection, the framework for your one chance at comprehension before you are forced unwillingly and ignorantly to swallow what will be.

Read on or suffer the more....