I endure for I am hard.
My will to power overcomes the death of God
Every let down sloughs off my persona.
Said the diamond to the coal.
In a simulacra.
Hyper real.
A simulated holographic principle.
More human, than human.

And here I am
Prescient in the noumea.
Of every perfect form.
I think, therefore I am
The ubermensch in recursion.
Self reflective particulars.
Like how I'm often an emanation of God
Without end.

Consistently
always
At
Rock bottom
And, I'm assured this is it.
The lowest I can get.

But friend,
I'm just a singularity.
So dense I fall through space time.
How far can we recede into first causes
If we don't infinitely regress.

You can trust that there will be a triumph of the will
Over the wretched of the Earth.
Unless all there is is the ego and its own.
Could potentially be a categorical imperative
To tell the truth.

But, then again
It's patently absurd.
Yet you insist on lining my epistemology
With your rancid ontology.
I'll have my own twilight of the idols
As I decline like the western empire.

Demonic despair.
Stoic loss.
Cynical.

No, I am that I am.
Tetragrammaton.

So many reassembled lifetimes.
I'm the Buddha of malcontents.
My realm is Dukkha.
My mantra, free me from Naraka.
And my upaya dissolved the mara
Preventing my realisation of Buddha nature.
But that doesn't mean anything.

Other than.

Irrational fear.

Isolation.

All the drawn out strained things.
I'm an avatara of falling apart.
A forgotten angel that never got to fly.
The gestalt of sloth.
Finding my meaning in many worlds.
And, as prime Nolan goes into seclusion.
The quantum immortality implied by my quantum suicide.
Drips off me like water off leviathan.
I don't holistically absorb reality.
I ignore it with logical positivism.
Collect some real world data.
A kinda empiricism.

But that's just the real.
Not me.
Everything begins and ends with me.

The historical imperative
That.
I'm the poltergeist
zeitgeist.
Of poverty stricken.
Paranoid prophet philosophers.
Making sense of the none sense.
In anyway I can.