We carry out our charity in contempt. The utter ubiquity of the human project has scaled each of us down to a mere shaving of a block of which we have fallen too far into the cracks to see the whole. We smile with reserve, offer courtesy laughs, and fail at each turn to offer one another the most honest advice we can give to another: that they best strive to be interesting to us, for anything less would be a full assault on the human spirit.
We conscious shadows would not hesitate to cancel the path of our journey toward that point in the road and that perfect time of day when we would disappear into our own source, if only we had some idea of just how a shadow can take comfort in the night. Then, we would leave our hosts behind and let the sun fold over the hills, content to watch only the remnants of its splendor... To be the sun! To be as free and as powerful as that element, so powerful, in fact, that the fruits of its benevolennce survive the night. The tree of knowledge was nothing compared to the first night in all of existence, in which that which survived the sun's absence was witnessed like a sleeping bride the morning after her wedding night, frosted faintly by that gossamer of ghostly vapors which haunt the dawn and bless all those remnants of the sun's over-abundance. We conscious shadows, like this bride, await the night more than this dawn. It is in the night that our sense of wonder is satiated, when we become what we are, wedded to our other. As for the morning, it is quite impossible to tell if it is the victory of time over us or we over time.
Is there not something perverse in our wholesale acceptance of this category, 'humanity?' No matter how much we clench our teeth through forced smiles, the death grimace tautens the boundaries of our expressions, revealing itself as the only real destiny we could all ever have in common. To accept humanity is to stop looking for a friend. The friend of Man is no friend to anyone and has no love for an 'other,' no matter which 'other' it is... The human scale robbed us of something when it was first distinguished. It was always supposed at one time that each people of the earth, according to their respective myths, were in fact the people, and the nature of that mechanism which constituted this unilateral distinction was different in each case. No matter how much trepidation we're sure to invest into our historical sentiments, we are as idiots in a village of doll houses in our condescending treatment of history - we the masters of all perception, dealing the violence of history's traces with a kindness it will never reciprocate. No, no people quite knew what was being said when they translated their own word for 'people' into other languages, just as it is never quite certain just what the other could possibly mean by the words 'I' and 'myself.' Our very means of communicating is riddled with the being we must give away in order to recognize others.
If I am not to give life to my others, then who are they, these beacons of individuality? these lone eagles of indiscretion? What intercourse is there to be had with them who are as convinced of their minds as I am of mine? Only through the extremes, the absolute limits of extrovertion do we become lost in the other. To turn everything inward is not so extraordinary a feat, regardless of what we are always being told by mystics about the perfection of infancy. No, the truth is the future - the time-granted possibility required to empty oneself, to expel from oneself that hidden potentiality, that germ of creativity that is communication; accelerated appropriation, growth and accumulation taking on its own life in such a manner that it appears to be before the eyes... This is, after all, the first instance of a recognition of a God who is an other.
We will go home to our flats and cottages and quiet country homes, we wakefull ones of the night. We will stir restless in the hope of the morning for which we can forsake our positions as watchers of the night's melancholy. We wait for a friend brave enough to be defeated by the night, only to lift our heads with an all new sunrise, retiring to our beds with the realization in our breast that all have merely gone on surviving these nights over and over in the loftiest solitudes.