The horror of philosophy has been my favorite immersion from time immemorial. I have long hungered to know the depths of all that reaches beyond our mere pieces of insubstantial flesh, gristle, and blooded brains. I am nequient to hold any piece of myself in illusions of anthropomorphism, although I understand that everything which I attempt is saturated in this paradigm. Amidst the possible proclivities to a solution which never fully erumpented from the sheer knowledge of every brazen dreadterror and every coarse fundament of the corpulent words which must create sensibility. In my endeavors to formulate a knowledge of any clear or exacting place beyond the bounds of mere dismality and overwhelming durge which consume my worldly relations, I have surfeited every possible permutation of nacre into my prose. When I pen, I must do so with the precision of exacting verse and formal presentation. I want to create contemplations upon pessimism not merely by dissection in academic style, but by a creeping infusion of both the unheimlich and the melancholic. I must leech forth the hues of auber, dun, and charcoal from the tenebrous fathoms of the brumous Othritch, and so arrive at my own confession.

I must confess.

Here is a sooth which has gathered the ire of all possible conflicts. To be nihilistic is to educe different views of the persistent human belief that there must be a certain evolution of the unknown or the obscene without a pause of any illuminating or evocative notion amidst the dwelling of all unrepentant nuances repellant, amidst the vocallant and vicious attitudes of benighting and profound absence, in the lightless and countless ages of untempered and unmitigated words and dismal reaches of the unfathomed and the miseried conflagrations of the heed and the age of those doubtful inconveiniences of the unrelenting viding now a pure trial of every unseen beleagurance and boring emergence never, not, the creature of each informant sweep, the unrenounced voices becoming as a hatred of whatever was…

The negation of human values and place inspires a prolific terror in each resoundant echo of the undetermined or unplaced loss which must result. In our most clandestine and unrelenting No adynaton may convince me of the rebarbative properties of such a paradigm. Nihilism offers a relief from succorous falsehoods. In the actual evolution of the unthinkable, in the loss of secure knuance and awareness, I may accept this terror. In my dreams, which are free from malneirophrenia, I may know the release from my waking remnants of trauma. In these coalescing awakenings into the formless ache and egregion of the dilapidated day, I am recalled to my own befuddling position.

To posit that a physical, palpable morality exists is to surrender to an alogism of the worst variety and formation. The extension of the unfathomable is a mercy not easily granted to the unwary or the haplessly metastastical. We can only view those few dismal hours with a woe of such unremitting and unbeguiling actuality as to belittle the ultimate sensation of the most brittle anguish and wafting knowledge of something, of some ephemeral distance and destination without a simple answer of any resoundant parison, any actual placement in which the heedless environment of a mystery is never quite upon us. Without the merest knowledge of a form, a direction of navigatory place, and a simple glimpse of destination as made by the eternal need to know a distance from the eventual fathomlessness of our own oblivion. In those invariable runes of crude bewilderment and passing days of infernal damnation made as a hollow within every comfort, we are without the ability to hold a star to the fathomless gulfs of demise which hang always over us.

Thomas Ligotti is such an unfathomable tool for damned dreamers. He steps upon the bounds of all reasonable precipice, and there violates our sacrosanct notions of safehaven and sospital. His The Conspiracy Against the Human Race evokes an awe of the most nabalistic kind, for we must flee his accusations. How few will ever heed one who knows the folly of reproduction? We cannot know anything which is not inherited into our brain. In our own damnation or atrabiliousness, we deceive.

Much of our existence is rooted in antilapsarianism, for we convince ourselves that we are achieving some lofty goal. Our descendents, so we muse, will surely be grateful and jollitous for their opportunity to sculpt the landscape of their inheritance. Those pained echoes of every impassed formation spur the damned, for how may we admit that we are mere, matterless tissue and flesh- a possible supernatural horror- and unable to shape the universe to our wont? In those uneventful passages of greed, of years and decades untouched by any reason, more persons are created by the fools, by the ultimate fury of humanity, and by the delirium of reproductive rationality. When, in those aching spans of sensation brought by the few who recognize the horror, we are mocked ad trampled, we only know it the further. In such abundant grievance and acraisiality, how may we ever reach a summit of salvation? I think that there is no such designation save for our own knowledge of antinatalism. When the prolific tsunami of each unthinkable or untouchable terror becomes as a breathless relic of each eternity amidst the very notions and reasons of the engulfing persistence of life, the nightmare is then palpable.

Fiction such as this generates potent visions of the most vile habitats, for, beyond the human scope, we can interramification and many other incredible occultisms. Such miribalia never allows us to approach too closely the horror, however. We must endure the appalling similarities of every bogey to modalities of human comfort. No genuine Cosmicism may be penned by a human hand, nor may any actual knowledges of the outer limits be had within our phanerons. We may search with such willful need for the perfect pessimism, but bias will always be our foible. In our own ire, in our very knowledge of the perfect prose or ghastly bugbear, we remain a witness to the overwhelming nature of that terrific disillusionment from even the barest escape from anthropomorphic solipsism. The endowment which I would crave from the endless studies of fraught and unwound libraries of the unknown or unnamed proclivities in the future is a profound divergence from the vast torment which has haunted the quodlibetifercatory schisms of philosophy; the extremities of the unthinkable other continue as no other place or time of a sensation bereft of any sensibility.

To study the grotesque unions of any ideal is to arrive at a delusive sensation of mastery upon the subject. When in the failure of the most decisive moment, can we not hold a mere awareness of any progress? We return to the seductive premise of the most parodic jest, this being the normalcy of our lives, and we are at the juncture of the most confused ire and absolute mourning- for we are abjucating and abjuring the Weird. In the actual formations of each untraceable or unmistakable conflict which evolve by the writers of Lovecraft, of Bierce, of Pugmire, and by Padgett, nothing that is genuinely cosmic is generated.

If the merest signal of any actual calamity were to be as revealing orrevelatory as the religious doctrines, would we then all perish in despair? If of an obscene or unshakeable morass of the worst order were to descend, could it verily consume us so completely as to unhinge the layers of the obscene drivel and dryadic phantasies which hang so stoutly in our every impulse to persist, what then would emerge into a highest beacon of a trepidation and a will to see the final pieces of each individual stain which forever must cloy, must rampart the years of the torturous and unbeknownst image which eternally plagues the lurker in the age, the toil, and the relentless line of the unfatigued entity which never arrives at any designation?

I may forever wax upon the blight of the untriumphed voidances which fill us, but then would I hold my own pure gall of all other topics and whills? In all of my bewitched hours of dolor at being, I have never been my own ambassador to the troubles of a tortured mind as in the few reminiscences of trauma which have sprung upon and enfolded me. Is existence so condign? While I cannot know the tracery of the emotives beyond myself, I know that my own revulsion permeates every Planck Length of my phaneron.

Nihilism is the belief that not only is there no intrinsic meaning in the universe, but that it’s pointless to try to construct our own as a substitute. — dclements

For me and, I believe, Nietzsche, the idea that there is some transcendently given ultimate meaning to, or for, being is what inevitably leads to nihilism. This is because the truth, or even the intelligibility, of such an idea can never be established, and because the demand for it leads to the devaluation of human meaning. So, obversely to what you say here, it is only because the universe cannot have any overarching intrinsic meaning for us, that there could be any point to finding our own meanings. We don't construct meaning, we find it; it grows and evolves organically.

There is an element in the human psyche that loves to luxuriate in horror, which seems to be the obverse of eroticism. This is why horror and eroticism are combined in those old vampire movies such as Nosferatu the Vampyre etc. See also Hieronymus Bosch.