The Conspiracy Against the Human Race: A Contrivance of Horror

by Thomas Ligotti

No self now, consciously speaking. No feeling your old self or new self, false imaginings if you think about it, self-conscious nothings everywhere you look. No one to hear you weep or scream, making a go of it on your own, bye-bye. No bosom of nature, abandoned on the doorstep of the supernatural, minds full of flagrantly joyless possibilities, a real blunder that was, the human tragedy. No reality to speak of, nobody here but us puppets, contradictory beings, mutants who embody the contorted logic of a paradox. No immortality, ordinary folk and average mortals coming and going, can’t stay long, got an appointment with nonexistence, no alternative to consider, being alive was all right while it lasted, so they say. No life story with a happy ending to tell, only a contrivance of horror, then nothingness—and nothing else. No Free Will-to-live, no redemption by a Will-to-die, how depressing. No philosophies to peddle, pessimism a no-sale, optimism had to close its doors, too wicked to pass code. No meanings or mind-games, repressional mechanisms broke down, self-deception shuttered its windows. No awakening from a dream within a dream, mutation of consciousness—parent of all horrors, best not mess with it, extinction looking better all the time. No more pleasure, what there was of it, a few crumbs left by chaos at feast, still a good supply of pain, though. No praiseworthy incentives, just bowel-movement pressures, potato-mashing relativism. No euthanasia, bad for the busin...