It is said that the Prophet told his followers to die before they die. Are we in need of an existential euthanasia? In demanding this the act of Islam, the spiritual submission as understood in the worldly horizon evades the totality of it's temporal revelation. Sharia, the transmitted conditions of transcendental return is mortal after all, it's rulings are constrained by the metaphysical composition of Dunya (what need would we have for return if the oppositions between departure and arrival no longer convey any ontological resonance), but as we consciously die as the Prophet suggested, we project onto a certain possibility which is of course paradoxically avoided in the condition of intentional undeath. Life in death, "حي فل موت". To die intentionally then, is it not a suicide or do the inter-sensory components of the imaginal hierarchy, the shadowy presencing of which we merely mirror as fickled ambivalence assume the determinant of our own martyrdom? And thus, do we avoid the ultimate hubris in appropriating the original function in commanding for ourselves the collapsing of the infinite horizon, through nothing but our own will?
Is there nothing then, more terrifying in death? The rejuvenation towards the unveiling of the sub-conceit of an established revelation? Surely as Bram Stoker's Dracula would have it, there are far worse things in this world than death? Indeed how can fear what is not only the only certain possibility, but a desired archetypal condition. We have already inverted the projected fatal occurrence into the very condition of our fixation towards it. To fear this condition would only indicate a certain ethereal homelessness, having being hurled into the world and picked up oneself in horrified awareness of recycled time echoing behind him, and urging him onwards off a quickly approaching precipice. Treatment would require a determined yet effortless reorientation towards the finite, or the sacred life that lies on it's threshold. Is it this unknowable condition in the post-Dunya that resolutely defies the subjugation of human reasoning that deserves fearing?
How can fear, however the ultimate reconciliatory process between initiation and releasement, aesthetic degeneration and horrific rejuvenation, word as idolic injunction and unhindered desire in a violently sanctioned commitment to the nobility of the un-self. The last principle, perhaps. The horizontal blade of the impetuous feminine royalty, refinement in the wilful erasing of boundaries, into sanctified butchery, imposing momentary inter-sensory clarity in gleeful blinding's. The blade raised vertical and inherited among the purified self-obliterated. The vigilant slave, their kohled eyes mirroring their mastery over the inter-perceptuary, the splendid symmetry of their physical form complementing the blade inherited. Unquestionably masculine in virtue though bound and worshiped through the royal birth-giver. This is the nature of the double tipped sword. It is perhaps truly impossible to rationalise the outwardly destination but not entirely in vain to glimpse in the duality of the sacred form.
We are of course referring here to beauty. Beauty as the symbolic register of the articulation of truth, it's presence in the sensory realm. It is, not however an imitation by whose very nature is incapable of authentic admiration but a bridge unto which we gaze onto the other side and acknowledge the projected possibilities that lay beyond. Beauty is rarely a given though, but a mutilatory ideal. It's conditions must be carved through our moral and sensible boundaries. The void of the sacred light which saturates from within our exclusionary edifices are not, however fear inducing in the sense that we wish to consider here but more momentarily displacing.
The only condition worthy of fear then should be rot. A Thrownness but not in this world but the after. In the jaded torment, the infinite tearing onto all of ones possibilities there is simply no connection to the past, nor is there a present in which to feel frustrated. One is frantically holding against the shattered threshold. Grounding Is and the conditions unto which one orients his existence in an unfathomable vacuum of anti-Is. Terrifyingly perform useless tricks to pass into an opening, only to be left dejected, confronted by ghosts of performers to which art he may recognise but that he may never see as anything other than an unrepentant elimination.
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