Hell is the self
In this ‘life’ topic, we go back to the sucking topic of all: self.
What if the void or abyss that we refer to whenever we see ourselves in retrospect is actually that which we call the self? What fashions the self is deemed the self. But what if that self that we fashion and hone consistently is nothing but a void we are trying to fill in?
Often, people who wrap their heads around the idea of forming, if not finding, the self find the task to be rather endless, if not pointless. We sit in one corner to ponder upon life. And in this ‘life’ topic, we go back to the sucking topic of all: self. Who are we? What do we say of ourselves? How do we regard ourselves? What constitutes our identity?
Pointless, it is, in a way that it cannot be put to words, the self is not meant to be pondered upon, it seems. The self ought to be filled in with the lot this world of representations can offer.
Is the idea of self an empty construct then? Self is a word coined to refer to an empty whole.
Perhaps, the very obsession that we plunge ourselves into is that the self needs representation and this representation lacks what the self truly demands.
However, this extremely demanding void or abyss is selfish that it sucks what the representation can offer in behalf of the self that the self itself dismisses. Thus far, we see that the representation melts and loses its sense of the self.
A pressing question that is aching for an answer arises: What does the self want and not want?
And what if the self does not want representation of itself at all? If the self deems all representations as nothing, is not the self projecting its voidness to the representations which are in themselves rich in substance?
And, further, what if the self, for the lack of proper representation that it aspires to have, destroys itself since its empty nature cannot be represented by what the world of representations offers? However, as the self attempts the destruction of itself, what does it think of?
In an effort to get rid of the empty nature of the self, if not to mask it with what can conceal it, the self cultures itself with the experiences the world can offer.
In contrast, as the self gets immersed with the representations, the self loses its sense of itself. The self, to preserve itself, refuses to be cultured and filled with curiosities of the world.
Detached as the self may be, the self despises the fact that it is dependent on things for sustained existence. To this point, we see that the self is locked in a material substance of its being to appear: the human body.
This human body is nothing but a representation of the self. The self is that insatiable void that as it is given a chance to come to ‘being’, it grows dismissive of its ‘being’ form.
Hell is the abyss. Hell is the void. Self is hell. And hell is self.
