Self-
Cryptodira Lyrics

All rise and behold:
Attention! Look here!

He who raises and murders ontology.
The one who builds and destroys knowledge of existence.

Every morning he is on four legs, and every evening on three.
An allegory for human life and aging.

What mediates these ends when the sun is burning brightest is lost, as too is all of history.
The cause and purpose of life and history are unknown.

What is lost: the patience, the labor and the suffering of the negative.
The value of negative experiences is often overlooked or ignored.

From his sin proceeds existence.
Existence is born from sin or wrongdoing.

A violence transubstantiated into the social bond, and the beauty of Antigone.
Violent actions can bring people together and create beauty.

In her own right, she becomes a second earth which we imitate to save us from the first.
Antigone symbolizes a better version of humanity, which we try to imitate to escape the flaws of our own world.

In the place of the primordial earth, she is sacrificed symbolically thus the symbol can finally make itself arbitrary.
The sacrifice of Antigone allows for new symbols and ideas to emerge.

She's sacrificed on the altar of the colony, so her body can be broken up jealously into compartmentalized territory.
Antigone's sacrifice serves the needs of the community, but it also leads to further division and conflict.

An energy bounded both to precociously synthesize it, and to suppress its femininity.
A force that both tries to create and control femininity.

The ends of efficiency eclipse the means of happiness and health.
The pursuit of efficiency can harm our well-being and happiness.

Performativity reigns in a manic teleology.
We are pressured to perform and conform to certain expectations, leading to a frenzied pursuit of goals.

The wretched of the earth are de-personified and reduced to nothing but technology.
People who are suffering or oppressed are dehumanized and reduced to being used for technological progress or efficiency.

Bellowing out from the chasm of His churning belly is a quiet voice.
A small truth or realization in the midst of chaos or overwhelming forces.

Calmly, it makes a claim about the truth of his utility but the Truth can only yet be revealed half honestly: "Blood and misery stick to the triumphs of society, the rest is ideology." -Horkheimer
The benefits of societal progress come at a cost, and this is often ignored or downplayed.

The rest is what is found(ing-in) me clinging seemingly hopelessly to hope.
Hope is often the only thing left when everything else is lost.

I am an appearance.
I am not truly what I seem to be.

I Am splitting everything in two, like egos or the red sea.
I am causing division and separation in various ways.

Find me please, someone. Anyone lack(ing-in) the Truth I am powerless.
I am looking for someone who also lacks the truth, as I feel powerless on my own.

I am composing the shadow of the very life I protest. Each breath of this life is spent wasting itself.
I am protesting against a life that feels empty and unfulfilling.

I live a life which has outlived its own ratio, and all it has left to imitate is the very death which took place in the past.
My life feels like it has lost its purpose, and the only thing left to do is mimic the past.

(ItWill) is what is found(ing-in) me ecstatically taking pleasure from the pain like turning water into wine to stimulate its profit rate.
I find pleasure in pain and suffering, which serves to increase my own gains or benefits.

Find me calling for the rest: A rest' which is both margin and repose. Both residuals of suffering and return into nothingness.
I am calling for a sense of rest or relief, which is a mixture of freedom from suffering and acceptance of mortality.

Traces which are drowned out by floods. The floods which rush in after parting the sea between what-is and what-ought-to-be.
The small traces of meaning or purpose in life are often overwhelmed by larger forces and conflicts of what is versus what should be.

The floods which I nonetheless fantasize in the very act of producing a totalizing thought.
Even as I acknowledge the overwhelm and chaos, I still yearn for a total understanding or explanation of it all.

To arrive at totality: everything must be broken down, recomposed and accounted for.
To truly understand everything, it must be analyzed and reduced to smaller, more manageable parts.

The smallest units for totality which we are given by the sacrificial cult: Break it all down into pennies, infants and letters.
We often use small symbols or units to try and represent larger ideas or concepts.

These splintered units are the very same with which bodies have been unified. Unified under a name: the name of a Patriarch.
Despite the focus on small units, they are still used to unify larger groups of people under a common identity or figure of authority.

The name is Logos, which was projected into the beginning. Logos, whose name is Law.
The figure of authority and unifier is often represented as a word or idea, which holds significant power and influence.

Despite this totalizing impulse, the world will overflow the word. Because the ends are lost, the only vision left to alienated consciousness is the discontinuing of everything.
Despite our attempts at totalization and control, the world will always be more complex and unpredictable. When we feel lost or disconnected, the only option may seem to be to give up or end everything.

How gentle is the fantasy of beginning again? But tyranny still rests here, in latency, for what is this but an apocalyptic fantasy?
While the idea of starting over may seem appealing, it often leads to further oppression and destruction.

So, try this failed intention again. In the meantime, the self-same is reproduced. Multitudes broken down to one docile Soul.
Despite past failures, we often repeat the same actions and patterns. This leads to a loss of individuality and conformity to a larger system.

As in any system, silence is preferable. Multitudes recomposed to conform to Forms. The eternal Forms of blessed anamnesis.
In a system that values conformity and sameness, silence and obedience are prized. People are expected to fit into predetermined forms and roles.

The Forms in which I hide from unforeseen consequence. In those Forms, life is emptied of content. Life becomes hollow, and all becomes vanity.
The predetermined Forms in which we are expected to fit can deny us the true richness and meaning of life. It becomes a meaningless pursuit of vanity and superficiality.

All rise and behold his body which chains us in the horror of our own.
We are held prisoner by a larger system or figure of authority, which only leads to terror and horror.

We lack the Forms after our half-honest disavowal so now Lack has become a Form.
After we reject the predetermined Forms, we are left with a new form of Lack or deficiency.

We feel nothing on the skin we sacrificed. We feel nothing, except the passage of time.
Even when sacrificing ourselves or giving up everything, we may not feel the satisfaction or meaning we were hoping for.

Found(ing-in) me, hope and despair unequally I Am splitting everything in two to grasp this wrong reality.
I am torn between hope and despair, and I try to make sense of my confusing and difficult reality by breaking it down into smaller parts.

Find me, someone, anyone tell me that it is not (y)our fault. I will lend my voice to suffering so that it may speak honestly.
I am seeking validation and comfort from others, and I want to amplify the voices of those who are suffering.

All the while fearing my obsession with Justice will destroy my sincerity.
I worry that my desire for justice and fairness may undermine my authenticity or sincerity.

Intercourse blindly made history. And history dialecticized itself. It made itself into dialogue. Beautiful Telos folded into brute Causality.
Human interactions and actions have shaped and influenced history. History itself has become a dialogue or conversation, where the past informs the present. This contrasts with the idea of a beautiful, ideal end goal being turned into a violent or brute reality.

From where came this pit? This hollow? This hole? T'was when the Idea encroached on the soul.
The emptiness and hollowness in life came when our ideals or ideas encroached upon our true selves and souls.

The idea of peace: all tranquil, all calm, It-Self waging war on all not embalmed. The Idea is whole seducing us so.
The idea of peace is often a facade or illusion that ignores larger conflicts and harms. Despite this, we are seduced and drawn to the ideal of peace.

The Idea is death, in wait to unfold.
The ideal or idea of peace can lead to destruction and harm.

From when did we need? From when did demand? Between these two modes, a force reprimands our clay-addled foot. A shade in pursuit of all which gives pause, or lets us take root.
We have always needed and demanded things, but this force can sometimes reprimand us or guide us to more meaningful pursuits. This force seeks out the things that give us pause or allow us to find a sense of grounding or stability.

Desires its name. It conjures its own. Its seeds shadow all. In each, they are sown.
Our desires and wants are all-consuming, and they have a way of spreading and influencing everything around us.