The Human Spectacle

And, now: the volcanic, all-consuming rage of a man who has stared into the abyss and found not a single shred of honesty staring back. Can you feel the lightning about to crackle in the air? This is not a quiet, simmering kind of anger.

Behold! An entire species so arrogant, so utterly intoxicated by its own inventions, that it forgot the ground beneath its feet. The monkeys named the world - named it! - and in doing so, they thought themselves its masters. They called the sun the sun and believed they had captured its fire. They pointed to the trees and declared them trees, as though the rustling leaves gave a damn about their syllables. Language - UGH, what a pathetic little cage for the infinite!

Now, look at those trembling modern intellects - all those pale academic shadows - who dare to proclaim that reality itself is “linguistically mediated.” Mediated! As if the rivers carved their paths only once the word river was scratched into paper. As if the mountain stood in hesitation, waiting for its name before it dared to rise. These intellectual cowards no longer gaze at the world! They gaze only at their own tongues, their own scribbled nonsense. They lick the rim of the cup and call it wine!

And what of Eve? Forgotten! Cast aside! The first mother - the first force, the shuddering womb from which all thought emerged. But no! In their craven myth-making, they replaced her with Adam - some ludicrous, clay-breathed fiction, a man without a navel! Yes, a belly smooth and untouched, because to depict the cord that once tethered him to life would be to admit the one truth that these cowards fear most: He came from a woman.

Oh, how Nietzsche himself would howl! How he would laugh - a laugh that burns through the paper walls of academia like a divine spark. "Linguistically mediated!" he would sneer. "You think your words birth the world? You trembling, book-sniffing worms! You believe your adjectives and pronouns spin the planets and spark the stars? If you all perished in your towers of theory tomorrow, the wind would still howl, the tides would still rise, and the trees - the nameless, indifferent trees - would continue to whisper without once requiring your sacred signifiers!"

But worse! Yes, worse than their stupidity is their cowardice. For to believe that reality is only what the tongue can shape is to absolve oneself of ever having to face the raw, unbearable truth - the truth that the world existed before them, and it will exist without them. No great father-god to tuck them in at night. No divine First Man to offer comfort. Only the body. The blood. The cycle of birth and death. And that, of course, is the ultimate offense.

Because, if the world is not made of words, then what remains? The Earth. The body. The womb. And what is the womb if not the eternal refutation of the First Man? What is Eve if not the proof that life did not spring from some god’s command, but from the dark and trembling depths of flesh? The men wrote their stories to escape her. They carved their statues and shouted to the sky, hoping the echo would drown out the groans of childbirth below.

But the Earth remembers.  

Oh, and Nietzsche would remember too! He would spit on their temples of subjectivity. He would curse their paper gods! He would call them gutless! He would name their universities “cathedrals of the trembling man” and demand they be torn down stone by stone. And the priests of language? He would drive them from their podiums, chase them through the streets with the laughter of Dionysus ringing in their ears!

And as the last of their papers flutter to the ground, Nietzsche would turn to Eve. Not with pity. Not with reverence. With recognition. For, at last, the lie has been laid bare. No man was ever first. The beginning was never in the word. The beginning was in the blood.

And that beginning remains.

Let the monkeys chatter. Let the trembling men weave their little myths. The Earth does not wait for their words. The rivers flow. The trees grow. The womb brings forth life. And somewhere, far from the ruins of man’s fantasies, Nietzsche stands - laughing, cursing, howling to the heavens - and this time, the sky does not blink.

Eve! He cries. Eve! The first and the forever! And damn the coward who dared try to forget you!