Kafka understood, but was only able to express it obliquely. We are no longer human, those of us who inhabit civilized spaces and breathe the toxic effluence of the machine. We are couriers of power, bureaucratic functionaries, servomechanisms. And it’s not simply that our daily activity is steeped in meaninglessness until our flesh is rendered of its animal vitality, but the ultimate futility of it all has penetrated the very bones of our thought, into the marrow. We are hollow vessels, cyphers.
To wake up as a gigantic insect would be a welcome change.
Emptiness is necessary, essential. It is not incidental. Our emptiness is not a design flaw. It is in fact the very source of the machine’s power. The modern world is built upon nature’s abhorrence of vacuums. Deprivation. Need. Want. Desire. Emptiness to be filled. Emptiness that begs for the smallest crumb of meaning. Emptiness that pleads for the faintest illusion of purpose. It is emptiness—our emptiness—that draws civilization along its ever-expanding planet-eating trajectory.
On some level, we know this. On some level, like Kafka, we understand too. Although we long ago learned to hide this knowledge, conceal it behind each new consumable distraction, confusing the palliative of diversion for actual remedy. On some level we know this, and we long for someone or something to save us. We wait desperately for a Sherpa to guide us back to ourselves.
But where would such a Sherpa take us? Where would we go? Where is there other than here? There is no sturdy mountain peak in the distance, no beckoning snow-covered summit to serve as a point of reference, no visible target, no map coordinates to establish direction of travel.
Any route you choose to take through the void will lead you to the same nowhere.
