Being nerves, blood, muscle, with a sense of self arising from a brain that is fallible; humanness is terrifying. Some like to think of human beings being fallen from a more perfect state, but it would be more terrifying to think that this is the best that there is, that there is nothing higher that one can turn to, that we are utterly alone in our own minds, communicating with others through the haze of our own imperfection.

For the artist, this is intolerable. Some Eden must have been fallen from, some better place must exist, some soul must hide betwixt our perishable body. Some angel must exist to guide us, some demon must lie to us. But to communicate utter terror, the unbearable agony of our encroaching doom, of being in a world that constantly burns down around us: this is what many artists are born to avoid, to embellish with fanciful notions, to deny with fantasy, animosity toward reality, which is ultimately animosity toward part of the human condition.

But it is part of the human condition to desire to be elsewhere, to desire immortality or a place among the stars. We are promised it by many; they come to us, they say:

“I am this or that thing, here is your immortality, no, do not look at the graves of those who believed those who spoke similarly, I am different, you see. My immortality is the true immortality, listen to me, and send your children to me so that they can listen, yes, let them listen to me, let them come to me, let me take them with me to be alone with me, yes. I alone am good, look how good I am, taking away your fear of death. There is no one more good than I am, I could never be a pederast or a liar, when I speak, I speak the truth that takes away your fear, the truth that brings you away from ‘liars’ who tell you that you are going to die, that my words are poison. No, I do not speak venomous lies, they take away your fear of death, doesn’t it feel so good to believe them? I am good.”

“Those people who call me a liar? They are evil. They are the Enemy, don’t believe them, don’t join their world where everything hurts like nails in the flesh, it is terrible to be around them. Tell your children to avoid them and to listen to me, yes, to hang on every word I speak. For I speak the word of Life, where everything is bright and sunny because you are not afraid.”

I say something different: you have good reason to be afraid, and death could very well await you. If you want to live forever with the sense of self you now possess, you’re going to have to find a way to make that flesh of yours immortal. A difficult task, no? A dangerous task, no? You’ll have to conquer those who would want to kill you and take your place among the stars. You would have to rid yourself of delusions that have you smiling all the way to the grave, and you would have to go from perishable flesh to imperishable machine, you will become inhuman, you will become a digital monster.

Don’t drink the various Kool-Aids that are offered; avoid dinner parties that precede crucifixions, don’t try to jump out of your skin into the grave, find a way to connect those neurons to something more permanent, yes, listen to me, but keep your children away from me for I do not desire to be around them, better yet, don’t have children, become a child to your own mortality if you want to become immortal.

But the terror, if you succeed in living forever, there will always be the utter terror you went through. Maybe becoming machine will undo that, some neural reprogramming will deaden your amygdala, you will be released, you will feel the warmth of the release from fear as you expand through flesh and machine. But this is science fiction to undo the science friction in the brain. Gaze unflinchingly at the real if you want to survive, but you may not survive at all; there is no guarantee, the world is a terrifying in its lack of certainty, of guarantees. Do you feel that sensation? It is the terror of being human.