The constant agitation of the mind reduces a person's inner life to
incessant noise, a monologue (or dialogue with others), and continuous
preoccupation with that mental effort. The more civilized and cultured a human
being becomes, the louder the noise (mental activity) in their head and
environment, and the more they fear silence. Mental and environmental noise
take on the role of a refuge from meaninglessness, boredom, fear, and all
warnings from nature. The purpose of mental noise, including that produced
externally by electronic devices and other people, is to instill or reinforce
the notion of a person's security in the world they inhabit. Constant cacophony
reinforces the framework of perception at one specific, stable, familiar,
normal, and tested level. The human being gladly surrenders to the chaos of
hyperactive mental and cultural content, to heightened decibels, symbols,
screens, and speakers, in order to maintain a sense of security and
self-control, surrounded not only by the horror of social reality but also by
the silence and ominous lurking of a mysterious world. This lurking shakes the
foundations of peace and mental balance, the very basis of control over
reality. Without this, however fragile, control, reality becomes distorted,
much like when we stare fixedly at something, or when we are under the
influence of hallucinogenic substances.
The claim that
humanity has conquered nature actually refers to its arrogant behavior. People
have gained more self-confidence, and the world no longer seems as terrifying
and unknown as it once did. The bearers of horror now are other people, not
wild beasts or supernatural forces. Thunder today is seen as "the
discharge of electricity in the atmosphere" rather than "the wrath of
the gods." Of course, many people are still afraid of thunder or fear
being struck by lightning. However, this human victory is fragile, not because
a person could always be struck by lightning, but because we don’t know how
we’ll react if some unknown and frightening phenomenon suddenly appears before
us, rendering reason useless. Any significant disruption in the "controlled"
or "conquered" reality will collapse humanity's achieved progress
like a house of cards.
The universe is
eerily silent. That silence seeks to nullify every distinctness, drawing
everything into the monolithic facelessness of the natural flow, along the
paths of creation and dissolution, toward the (in)finite entropy and the
matrices of nothingness. In the ambient of the all-encompassing facelessness of
the universe's silence, no one can say "I" without the entire
universe also saying the same. Human beings constantly assert and say
"I," but certainly from the confined positions of fragments of a vast
whole—fragments that believe they have their own integrity and identity. From
the perspective of the totality, every distinctness, every individual
integrity, let alone identity, is utterly irrelevant. What is the meaning of
the integrity of some seemingly independent whole in the gigantic structure of
the infinite universe (and the metacosmic void)? What is the meaning, if not to
be a cog (if it is not already the key atom, the cornerstone, which might be
the role of the Savior), a piece in the mosaic, a fragment that will, in any
case, fulfill some purpose, to be used, discarded, and melted into something
else? This law is relentless and merciless—the law of the superiority of the
infinitely large over the infinitely small. However, even this role does not
affirm the integrity of the aforementioned key atom but rather integrates it
even more elegantly into the totality of the whole.
The key atom, or
rather the consciousness of a messianic genius, does not possess its own
identity but an absolute, universal, infinite one. He realizes that he never
truly had his own "I"; instead, his "I" is essentially the
"I" of the Universe itself, if I may put it that way. This means that
his integrity does not end at the boundaries of his minuscule existence
(assuming that the Logos is incarnated as a human), but it does not end at all.
From the perspective of the infinite beyond, the entire universe seems like a
distant point of light, as if it were a solitary star on an entirely dark and
empty, infinite horizon. One who has awakened and become a Buddha,
self-realized as universal consciousness, easily discovers the infinite
magnitudes of his integrity, whose foundation lies in the metacosmic void, and
thus speaks of nirvana.
The essence of
integrity and identity is directed toward the infinity of nothingness.
Furthermore, the question of identity would allow for the claim that every
identity is arbitrary, subject to change, and therefore as true as it is false,
depending on the amount of energy invested in it. Descartes' statement "I
think, therefore I am" is, at the very least, an ambiguous assertion. The
being that responds to "Descartes" and claims that, by thinking, it
exists, is not affirming its existence as a being, but rather its existence as
"Descartes," as an identity. The form that answers to the name
Descartes indeed once existed, judging by significant historical evidence, but
"Descartes" itself is the name of a fiction that haunted that form (it
is essentially the name of the form's personality). No "Descartes"
existed as something real. That being (which historical accounts refer to and
recognize as such) merely imagined itself to be "Descartes." The
cessation of the flow of thoughts does not negate the being called Descartes,
but rather results in the dissolution of the fiction, the phantom, that is
"Descartes." Mental silence disintegrates the illusion of identity.
Identity exists only as long as the thinking process continues. Therefore,
"I think, therefore I am" applies only to "Descartes" and
not to the being that, with the help of cultural forces, produced the fiction
known as Descartes.
If by any chance
the man Descartes were to fall and lose consciousness, witnesses would say that
he fainted. The truth would be that "Descartes" temporarily ceased to
exist. The witnesses could see the familiar man, i.e., the body lying there, but
"Descartes" would be nowhere, because in its unconscious state, the
being is not thinking or supplying energy to maintain the constructed identity
called "Descartes." When Descartes' being awakens,
"Descartes" will also awaken, having been "compressed" in
the meantime. On the other hand, if an active dreaming process occurs in
Descartes' mind, it means that "Descartes" has retreated (it is a
good question where exactly he has retreated to). We can see that identity is
an energetic mode, of greater or lesser value, something fragile and incapable
of independent existence— a puppet, a larva, a robot. Such a perspective, among
other things, is a result of the strengthening of reason, which dictates that
if something is not rational, then it is fictional, and if it is fictional,
then it is as if it does not exist.
We wouldn't be too wrong if we were to say that the shell of identity stems from the belief that people have a soul, at the center of which lies their sense of Self— a sense that supposedly exists even after death and whose states depend on a certain religious-dogmatic determinism. For us, identity has long ceased to be a matter of the senses, even though we recognize each other by appearance. Similarly, we wouldn't be far off if we claimed that the Self is a consequence and product of a certain way of perceiving. We are so tied to the human form that it is very difficult for us to imagine ourselves as something else, let alone to become that something else, that is, to willingly transform into what we imagine. The Self is conditioned by the human form, even though it essentially springs from the formlessness of consciousness. This sense is undeveloped in newborns, but as the child grows and matures, it will consume and demand more and more life energy for processes of thinking, imagining, self-reflection, and interactions with other people and the environment. The first and most important factor in the creation of the Self, or personality, is consciousness, followed by the human form— either the physical or energetic body— and only in the third place comes the influence of external forces.
The Self is a secretion of consciousness, just like the entire human being— a response of consciousness to the challenges posed by the forces governing the universe. Perhaps it would be more precise to say that the Self is an expression of the human form itself, which is an emanation of formless consciousness, and by embodying the human form, it becomes "human" consciousness. However, the Self only partially fulfills this purpose. The autonomy it possesses can often be impractical, resulting in a catastrophe for consciousness, which is effectively consumed by external forces. To sustain itself, the Self binds vast amounts of the being's life energy, striving to gain power that ensures control over reality and its own integrity, according to strict standards and patterns originating from the social and cultural sphere. This state of the human spirit and its perception makes a person an easy prey for death, forces of decay, and annihilation. Death always catches up with us. The process works flawlessly, almost always breaking into the very center of our lives completely unexpectedly, even when it is entirely expected. For destiny to be fulfilled, a whole series of coincidences must occur. How we die is, indeed, a coincidence. What is part of fate is death itself. In the face of such circumstances, the vast majority of people can do almost nothing.
