The Will to Power: An Eternal Rebellion Against the Abyss
You speak of hope as if it were a balm for the weary soul, a fleeting comfort that lingers in the corners of our despair. But let me ask you: what is this hope but a ghostly whisper, a shadowy illusion that teases us with promises of a brighter tomorrow? You say that we do not live through things, but that things flow through us—indeed! But do you not see? This very flow is the current of our being, a torrent that sweeps us away, leaving us clutching at the remnants of our illusions.
Scars, you say? Evidence of resilience? Perhaps! But let us not mistake the scar for the wound. These marks, these remnants, are not badges of honour, but reminders of the battles we fought against our own nature. We wear them as symbols of endurance. Seneca might tell you that “the scars are the proof of a life lived in accordance with nature, of a soul hardened against the caprices of fate.” But even he knew the truth: that resignation to fate is but a half-truth. The stoic endures, but the warrior—ah, the warrior!—transcends. We must not merely bear the storm; we must harness it, ride its fury to the edge of existence and beyond.
You speak of harmony, of love, of the courage that comes from companionship. But I say to you: Beware! For these are chains, golden though they may be, that bind us to the herd. Our essence is fractured, that we are mere fragments of a self scattered across time and space. But you speak of harmony as if it were the natural state of man. No, harmony is a delicate fiction, a dream we tell ourselves to keep the chaos at bay. The courage you speak of is but the courage of the many, a courage born of numbers, not of the individual. True courage is the courage to stand alone, to confront the void without the crutch of another’s hand.
And what of hope? You say it feeds us, sustains us, but I ask you: does it not also deceive us? Hope is the sweet poison that dulls our senses to the harsh reality of existence. It is not hope that we need, but a ruthless clarity—a vision unclouded by comforting lies. Hope is the opium of the masses, it lulls us into complacency. Seeking temporary solace in these films, the shows, the stories—they are not portals to escape, but mirrors that reflect our own cowardice, our refusal to face the truth of our condition. There is no escape, only confrontation. The world loves to whisper of peace, of tranquility, of finding a place within the great cosmic order. But I say: the cosmos is chaos, and our task is not to find a place within it, but to impose our own order, our own values, our own meaning upon it. Life is neither complex nor simple—it simply is.
Loneliness a mirage? Happiness a disease? No, it is precisely the opposite! Happiness is a fleeting illusion but loneliness is the rock, the foundation upon which we build our castles of sand. It is the truth, the bedrock of our existence, against which all else must be measured. Happiness? It is but a fleeting distraction from the work of becoming, the great task of sculpting the self into a work of art.
One speaks of seeing life beyond the lens of suffering, of finding beauty in the world. But tell me, what is this beauty if not a mask for the horror that lies beneath? The thorns, the blood—they are not decorations, but the essence of life itself. To walk the thorny path is to live truly, to feel the sharp sting of existence and to know that you are alive. Do you see? The red of your blood upon the petals is not grotesque—it is the very sign of your vitality, your will to power!
Permanence, a myth? Yes, and yet… it is precisely in the myth that we find our strength. To seek permanence is to seek power. The war must never end, the struggle must never cease. To cherish emotions, yes, but only emotions which are so profound that sends mortals shivering in the summer of their distorted visions. There is no final answer, no ultimate truth, no resting place where all questions are answered and all struggles cease. There is only the eternal becoming, the endless striving, the endless cycles of creation and destruction.
Living is the only way to find your meaning, you say? Indeed! But let us live not as the many do, in the shadow of the herd, but as the few—bold, unafraid, willing to confront the darkness and to find in it the light of our own creation. Living, then, is not merely existing. It is the active, conscious, passionate engagement with the world, with all its beauty and horror, its joy and suffering. To live is to confront the void and to draw forth from it our own meaning, our own truth. And in doing so, we do not just survive; we thrive, we transcend, we become more than what we were. We must not merely exist—we must overflow! We grasp the stars with our bare hands, even if it means being scorched by their fire.
By: Ashutosh Sharma
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