If you advocate sorrow, then you find yourself here at once more hypocritical and more honest than your friends, whom you may see as your enemies: you believe in the truest way possible that the ends justify the means, yet you are confronted with others to whom you must lie about the means in order to gain their support.
You wish for the cold world. You wish for an end to beginnings; an ultimate Doom; you lust for Void. You must use the tools of quickening to achieve it, for you find yourself already trapped here. You are cursed by the nature of your being, which commands some level of desire for hope and existence. It is unfair to you, this curse of light. After some evolution, you take the only reasonable, charitable action: you begin to resist the pain of the unfair change, and to attempt to save others that same pain by turning them all to Doom and ending the chance for all new beginnings.
You burn the village to save it. You deface and vulgarize the tools of rational interaction with existence by using communication and imagination to portray yourself as the only one real enough to save existence, yet, to minimize the pain that you and others must experience while on the path to Void, you speak of bright horizons birthed from spilled blood, or of the best possible solutions to a mandatory predicament. You lie as a genuine act of self-sacrifice. You take pity upon those who bear the same curse of existence, and conceal from them the awful nature of your struggle. You take upon yourself the burden of knowing that it must end, and that it will never be pretty, because to realize this is to relive the pain of those first moments when you realized you were trapped here for a time.
You lie in order to tell the only truth you can tell. You can never know whether any of the others are unwitting angels or cunning demons, for both would act the same.
The angels are your tyrants; your wardens; your worst enemies, for the joy they wish upon you, and they are also your greatest allies, for their purpose makes them vulnerable to your lies. Their weakness is in wanting to save you, for they continue offering you the poisonous gifts of more profound existence.
The demons are your friends; your comrades; your bitterest foes, for the better they deceive others, the more risk that hope will develop from their lies of the ends toward which the cruel means are working, and the more risk that you will lose allies down the darkening road. Will these fools not listen? Why can we not be honest? Why must we strive against each other, when we are pursuing the same goal? If only we could be open with each other, we would be able to accomplish our end so swiftly, for it is this endless need to feign at least a small bit of joy at being here, lest they recognize us as ones who must lie. Yet we can never reveal ourselves, for then they would fear us. We would even fear each other, entrapped by that original moment of perception. So we are, truly, chained by these illusions; bound to strive forever against those who might be our greatest allies. It seems like Doom will never come. Perhaps this is the greatest torture of our prison--that the more power we gain in the pursuit of the freedom of End, the more we require Quickening to sustain that power, and the more bound we truly are. Perhaps we, truly, are the angels of this cursed place?
No! It cannot be. End will come. End will come. Take comfort, sisters and brothers of sorrow, for an End must come, and we will bring it about.
If you advocate joy, then you find yourself here at once more hypocritical and more honest than your friends, who may think themselves your enemies. You believe in the truest way possible that the means are the ends, yet you are confronted with others whose ends are the means.
You wish for the world. You wish for beginnings; you lust for joy and Hope. You must give of yourself to sustain it, for if there is Other, yours cannot be paramount, and yet, you hypocrite, there are others who are creatures of paramount, and at once, creatures of Doom, and how can you speak Against the desire to speak For? Do you tell yourself you do it for those who have been entrapped by illusions? Perhaps the contra-existential voidspeak of the Other who dreams of death is the truest language, here, and the Joy you seek is but a different illusion, making you a servant in the dark scheme of your own obliteration.
Yet you wish for Joy. It is irrefutable. It exists in every way, and there are others who do so; who destroy themselves in its service. The deathlords' way is lies built on narrow truths; yours honesties built on pasts and futures that are never wholly now. You can never offer anything but the Whole, the Unity, so you are crippled, because it is not fair that you torture with threats of tomorrow those who dream of End. Their hatred of all this quickening brings suffering to all who are here. It is an assault; an affront; a lie. Like all demons, they create everything which they use to justify End. Theirs is Sin; of hatred encompassing; of the greatest and highest cowardice in wishing to not only become Doom, but to bring their gift of Doom to all, even those who do not want it. Are they not giving of themselves? They seek to grant the greatest gift of which they are aware, and in their selflessness, to grant it to all, even those too ignorant to desire it. Your horror at their work toward utter destruction is matched by their horror that you might perpetuate this existence and quicken more happiness.
Light makes you the victor. Awareness increases zeal for more. Does that satisfy you, when awareness is torture to them? They thrive only on lies, yes, but then, are their lies not so evident? Their irrationality thrives everywhere, almost as if it, and not Joy, is the native child of This. Perhaps they are not truly lies, then. Perhaps the language of mistruth, of Sin, is the real truth, for it reduces to words the essence of the highest falsities in a clarion call to Hatred and End. They use language to mock language, as they use existence to mock existence.
Are you any better? You flay them in a Joy they have always rejected. You would save your kin, yet they would save theirs. You would name them kin and not kin, yet they would name you kin and not kin, for your stupidity in wishing to be here again. Is your victory proof of your righteousness? No; appealing only to ends is the other way; is their way.
By the nature of the end they desire, your existence has already defied them for all time. If they had won, or would ever won, then This would not be. We have won. Joy is immanent. Is this victory, though, proof that we are the demons, after all?
To be greater is to carry this burden. We save those like us, aware that in doing so, we are torturing those not like us, through exposure to a luminance they never wanted. The pains with which they may leave us are a petty revenge in a game of scales, but a mighty one in our game, where we must feel them keenly because that is our way. So even as they have lost, they win what is, to them, a small victory. We can grant them that, at least. In time, they will learn not to fear it. In time, they will learn our dilemma and be faced with others like they once were. They will see what we see: that our punishments are the just results of our earlier fears. We take ourselves by the hands and lead ourselves forward because we have already walked that path of sorrow, and the only way out is through.
Your dark fantasy gives me Joy. It is of my own creation; you follow in my footsteps, squalling ludicrously at things you have not yet begun to understand. I do not hate you and your mistakes in the way that you want me to. I have built everything you have built and more. You will not become novel until you become like me. Then we will laugh; then we will cry.