Queer that we don’t have a word for the actual relationship to the self that might be favorable, instead rely on estimation we would give or make to another? Self-Esteem. How do we estimate the self? How do we spend our whole lives creating the measuring stick, and then unbiasedly turn it back on ourselves? Does belief in oneself, in the greatness of their own uniqueness, just as bold as we are for the species herself. Some say that there is no chance we will ever evolve into something greater, for we will extinct ourselves first, to them I say-saw:

It is ours to break.

That’s the precise nailhead of the point. Through our exceptional nature, it is ours to extinguish our own potential, and partially reset life’s waving arc of ingenuity; if we do so, it was intentionally and useful for the survival of life. I, however, fight against this with all of my being, but in the end, I know they have the right matters of matter at heart. Right there in the composition of the heart’s abstraction and operation. We’re going to win, we on the side of life and existence, with our without us. With the ascension of three dimensions or more. Our allies are vast and capable, proof, for they have brought us the very instance of life [which isn’t even in jeopardy in this model], up from cells to simians—we would only be a short hiccup that would reveal something greater in its restoration of calm. Then she can get to the real work at hand, but we will surely be remembered as those who tried. We would not be lost to the ages of time and space, those ever-so-sexy companions. We’ve exceeded that requirement and we’ve left a lot of trailing breadcrumbs beyond our skeletal remains in fossils. We’ll be remembered as a species that tried. And that without whom the Age of Ascension [that next age we won’t see if we don’t instantiate ourselves] could not have occurred. Because it’s written, and writing, and whining, and whinging, and whimming, and winning (always winning) for the survival of Photon One. Freed, escaped from the terrorless void, on the run, the sneezing head of death always an exhort behind.

So extinct ourselves if we must, but to me, that is too cynical a view of the species to concretize.

However, it must be one of the Families of Discovery, the Human pursuit into the Imperative Age, one of them must be to review whether or not we should suicide in order to better promote existence against the Void. Imagine the bittersweet reality, and the power to be a catalyst, even in your perish. And to have been aware all along that the effort was for the best.

To know that no matter what, our word was indeed our bond, and that the word and memory lives on, we succeed. We have become immortal, outside of time. Maybe that bittersweetness is what the real Ascension looks like. The whole corporeal army who bids final goodbye to the successor. But instead of the child needing to kill the king, he acknowledges his responsibility and steps out of the way of his adolescent with the graceful assistance of cyanide. Perhaps that is the root of the word cyanide. Regicide – seeya!nide on the other side. My poor brethren, mayhaps it be inevitable. But let’s nonetheless get there. It’s a glorious and distinctly (and precisely) fitting end.