There’s a strange kind of peace that comes from staring directly into the abyss … not fighting it, not dramatizing it, but simply accepting that one day, you’ll vanish. For most people, death is something to fear, something to push away. For me, it’s a thought I return to over and over; not out of despair, but out of fascination. It’s the one truth that strips away every illusion: that everything eventually ends.
I that recognition, I find release. The French call the orgasm la petite mort: “the little death.” It’s a fitting metaphor. Both moments dissolve the boundaries of the self. Both are acts of surrender; a letting go of control, of identity, of being. When I surrender to that thought of death, it isn’t about self-destruction. It’s about self-erasure, the brief, merciful disappearance of everything that hurts, wants, or demands.
Afterward there’s calm but also emptiness. The kind that stretches out like a vast sky after a storm: clear, still, but almost too large to bear. It’s not depression, exactly. It’s awareness. The body feels small, the world fragile, and life itself strangely tender.
Philosophers like Camus, Cioran, and Bataille all circled this paradox: that to truly live, one must learn to die — not physically, but inwardly. To give up the constant struggle to hold on. To see existence not as a fight, but as a flow. In that surrender, something sacred flickers. It’s not meaning, but the freedom from needing any.
Maybe that’s what this ritual really is: a way of touching that freedom for a moment, of dissolving into the inevitable and calling it peace.
Sisyphus Shrugged 
Sorry for my absence, there is a lot going on, most of it is boring or not interesting anyway.
There is a correlation or what we think of as one between death and orgasm isn’t there, a line where consciousness falters for a small time, or maybe it’s knocked out briefly and that’s what we think death is.
Is there a way of sampling this or joining with it permanently? Most people crave that kind of thing, probably more than sex itself. Here, I think is where religion comes in, that idea of eternal bliss or the singularity of self existence with no threat, pain or responsibility – prolonged.
I think this is why drugs, especially the ones that knock you into that selfless state are so popular. I can see why heroin is so popular, though that kind of thing spooks me. Junkies fall on the other side of that quickly, in droves – unless they are Iggy Pop.
Introversion to me is in this league, I’ve been finding lately that people are trying and sap energy. Though to me – I’ve never been able to get my head around anything after life, it’s seemed to me to be like those people what get addicted to betting on the lottery, the odds are incomprehensibly (to the human mind) but people do it anyway. I’d love to have some belief in an afterlife but I can’t manage it. This is why I choose to live, painful, invasive and thrust on us without our consent it’s also something, not being alive, isn’t.
If everyone took the time to actually think – I am sure I’d enjoy this world more, thinking hurts though, which is why we have entertainment in all of it’s horrifying manifestations.
“One great big festering neon distraction”
I sometimes make myself smile that dog is god backwards and I live for my dog, best person I ever met. I hope you’re well, I’ve been meaning to write for a while, Cheers big ears!
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love how you put that, the idea that we keep trying to sample oblivion in bits and pieces. Maybe that’s what we mistake for peace: moments when the self shuts up long enough for something quieter to exist. And yeah, your bit about the dog hit me too. Maybe that’s the closest thing to grace there is, loving something that doesn’t demand explanation.
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