It is of the utmost importance to distinguish the cause from which man has sprung, that which proclaims no essence other than that which arises from the origin of his experience. We take it for granted without truly understanding it. Such is the pretense of remaining oblivious, of failing to observe whether our actions are fitting, that it transforms into the most common of habits, and from which, time and again, we draw nearer to the abyss, lured by the illusion of falling into it.

This, it would seem, is the fruit of the conceived notion of aspiring to our own well-being. It grows ever rarer, strange as it may appear, for our deeds to favor the integrity of others. In most cases, where we do decide to take action that benefits others, we do so not without first considering that we act for their good in favor of our own. It is a tautology, this failure to think of reciprocity.

And what does it matter? one might ask. It suits us to believe there is no one quite like ourselves. The doubt that stirs within us often, in truth, revolves around the whole—we are the center, and this we affirm inwardly. At times, perhaps, we ponder whether we are better people, ignorant, or foolish, if we see someone suffering and "feel their pain." We assign a code to this impulse, categorizing it as something superfluous, masking the existing reality that may lead us to unprecedented contradictions, to apparent affirmations.

We strive to rationalize everything concerning ourselves without consciously accepting (often even in our subconscious) that we are entirely subjective in this regard. There is no total reason in a decision, truly. When we seek to find it, we only complicate our lives.

The irony of seeking truth within ourselves as a pillar lies in confusing it with the belief that it will always improve our well-being and, obviously, in failing to accept that this need not be so. For it is, of course, at the mercy of our will. What we ought to understand, naturally, is that if our vocation is to seek truth, our well-being may or may not suffer as we pursue it. This is what occurs within the gaze of the self (ego = I).

We do not always notice it, but for a long time, we conceal it, disguise it. When the moment arrives that we can no longer do so, we seek a way to evade it, rarely confronting it. It is somewhat amusing to try to understand it, for as we walk the path toward the eternal place, we grow miserable if we are torn from it; rejection takes hold, and self-love ultimately drags us into the abyss of death.

Therein lies the peculiarity of the spectator of such events, who makes of Echo an unprecedented advance, blurring and redrawing the occurrences of the present. For what has transpired to act in such a manner? Why, a barbarity has been committed! The fool has hurled himself into the depths of the abyss, so consumed by his obsession with himself that immanence, indulging the whims of its master, revealed its face in the very place from which he leapt.

We may observe, as mere spectators, that there are two archetypes among those who fall into that abyss. There are some souls, simple and crude, who, training themselves fiercely to possess and practice their most savage and vile instincts, gradually transform into beasts. These individuals, drowned in their own thirst, desire nothing more than their own pleasurable possession, categorizing themselves as the archetype of the beast—a beast they adore and in which they not only wish to disguise themselves but whose very flesh becomes their cloak. They achieve this solely because they are driven by pleasure. They obtain what they desire. In their corresponding manner, they are then subdued.

Added to this, seen as punishment, they are stripped of that which limits their own desire, bound by what they crave. As if that were not enough, the very reflection of their desire watches them from the depths of their being, twisting their guts in the face of the void of dissatisfaction. It is not that they have renounced those animalistic habits, even to the point of self-flagellation. We might agree, without a doubt, that some of those habits are necessary, such as the most basic instinct of self-preservation. Yet it is that vice of excess, precisely, where madness takes hold, denying tranquility.

The fear of death looms over them more than ever. That infernal absolute fact, death itself, knocks at their door at every opportune moment. Those who deprive themselves entirely fall into the illusion of rising above the world. The motive can be none other than their instinct warning them of catastrophe; it is for this reason that, in their absurdity, they boast of acquiring an intellectual criterion devoted solely to reason. But reality wounds them constantly; the world will not end without them, yet with them, it perishes. Slowly, the ideal of their mind rots away—the ideal they, in their arrogance, claimed to contain the world.

It is of particular interest that from all this emerges a disaster almost comical, for they, without realizing it, have set out from failure. They live seemingly detached from the reflection of their own memories. They blink, revealing the actions their own existence led to, not without first warning them that what was truly granted was the power to think. And from thinking itself to the possibility of acting upon the world around them, implicitly holding them responsible for their own ignorance as a sort of prudence. They did not measure their arrogance; thus, they were punished like rocks sunk to the bottom of that lake in which they saw their reflection.

On the other hand, there emerges the second archetype of such individuals. These, being the absolute negation of the private, become the absolute affirmation of the public. They deny authority over themselves, falling into the pursuit of perpetual approval. They submit themselves to the free will of flattery, ingratiating themselves in the disbelief of becoming saviors of the world. How cold will be the correspondence with those societies to whom, deep down, these charlatans bear resentment, and at the announcement of their disbelief and uselessness, these, in their hatred, seek to annihilate them.

They might think, perhaps, that people will admire them for being less ignorant than they. But they repeat to themselves constantly: "They will not do it for truth, but because their sense of envy transforms into admiration." Even in cases where such speculation proves true or not, they will advocate for the latter, for that conclusion is tied to their absolute perception of things.

Stubborn as mules, constantly falling into their vanity, carefully guarding themselves against any criticism when proclaiming one of their many sacred affirmations, they end up falling into what they so desperately avoid, becoming, along the way, what they once claimed to oppose—what they might name, in their repudiation, as nothing more despicable and true than to call themselves cultural Pharisees.

Condemned until the day of their death by their own arrogance, they receive the punishment of trying to understand the meaning of their own existence. Not seeking it in the denial of themselves, no, but finding it in every possible emancipation, for living, under their guidance, is a web of memories that pass unnoticed before others. These, without understanding what has happened, must be instructed by those prophets who fully comprehend their lives.

In the blink of an eye, revealing themselves through their works, set in motion upon the guillotine to which their own existence blindly led them, they fall into paranoia and idolatry. Not taking responsibility for their mistakes, not measuring any deed by the eagerness to make their supposed achievements a prize with which others must ingratiate themselves, they end up becoming the perfect charlatans. For these, one can only feel pity or disgust.

What are we to reflect upon all this? Ironically, most of the time, we spend our days thinking about what might make us better people. There are moments when we submit to the whims of others, believing we will please them, but this will serve no purpose, for that aim cannot fill the void within that poor soul. What if we were to eliminate something as horrid and useful as pleasure?

Would we believe, perhaps, that those for whom we sacrifice ourselves would reciprocate as we hope? Humanity, under its morality, has always sought to do what is right simply because we must, and precisely, it is what we find most difficult to do, for our very fear limits us from surpassing ourselves.

One often learns that just as many admit their errors, countless others spend their time blaming the world rather than themselves. Perhaps they do so out of envy, frustration, or sheer desperation; at times, it may truly be their fault to start from such a premise, other times it will be no one's fault, yet they will not hesitate to do so if it offers them a small escape from the truth.

The capacity to limit themselves to seeking the little they are convinced to obtain, they deny. Ambition, while necessary, so long as it does not harm one's integrity or that of others, does not matter much in itself. One might naively affirm that this is obvious, for it grows ever more constant, the immense doubt that such conviction takes in the fragile state of the world today.

But it must be affirmed with all sovereignty that the world is miserable, no matter how intellectual one strives to be, nor how irrational one pretends to be. To stand above the world and above oneself is the madness best instructed by that peremptory abyss. Yet, there is always the possibility of emerging from that darkness we wish to embrace; humanity is not entirely lost.

It is to be confirmed that, in its entirety, there are those who have already chosen to abandon their humanity completely. Seeing themselves as ambitious, greedy in their self-love, they fall under the spell of empty affection—as vain and special as they present it to themselves in that reflection of the pond. Likewise, that abyss, covered by great tides, awaits them. Seeing its prey approach, it stirs so that they may glimpse their reflection, only to, upon entering that pond, move violently once more, dragging them to the depths of death.

Prologue

To dwell eternally upon the final frontier. Such is immanence—to remain unjudged for what is authentically sovereign, neither torn from the place where what is, IS, and is eternal, and not dead. To abide in that realm where, even with the certainty of the temporal, you strive by all means to evade verdicts. Avoid, avoid, avoid all that casts you into the abyss, even when you are certain, absolutely certain, that you have been condemned, that you have condemned yourself. Certainty, madness—they haunt you, for within the infinity of knowledge lies the judgment passed upon you, and with unwavering firmness, you have been condemned eternally.

What must you do to linger in the supposed eternity of the temporal? Nothing but to mar the created creature. What must you do to evade death? Nothing but to turn affirmations into ambiguities, the absolute into the relative, the hot and cold into lukewarm, to drag all things not into balance, but into the abyss—from vice by defect to vice by excess, from good to a scale of goods, from concrete notions to liquid ones. Where has truth gone? Where has it vanished?

Above all, there will be free will for you, let that judgment stand above any other—freedom, the first proclamation of rebellion, freedom above all, even above God, rebellion against whoever denies free will, against whoever imposes restriction, against every existing norm. A creature without law, its law is nothing, yet in appearance, it is all it possesses, all that remains. Where lies the error in all this? I must know the error in its entirety to avoid falling into it, and returning eternally to its origin, we ask the eternal: Where has truth gone? Free will in abstraction is nothing but death, yet, above all, what remains for the created creature is nothing more than the ultimate proof that in earthly life there is survival, and survival is sought, imitating the one who crawls, crawls to attain eternity, deceiving itself to avoid falling, even as those who, imitating its eternal actions, have been eternally condemned, there, into the abyss of death.

«I will serve me » The False Edict

Where is the true verdict? Non serviam—the declaration made by an angel, a statement that, within the absolute, within the beginning and end of all orders, came from one who called himself "the bright or luminous one" by divine right, a being who would alter and establish the temporal order, ensnared by his own arrogance, eternally, and who would seek any means to remain eternally upon the harm inflicted upon the created creature.

Non-correspondence—where does the word go if not to oneself? To what place will those utterances arrive if not to the very foundation by which they were named, that is, for the I, for egos (εγώ = I, the cult of self), to gaze into the pond, not to gaze idly, but to gaze, to identify oneself, at all times and places, as the axis by which all things are understood. There is no sovereignty that is not apparent, and none so scarce that it does not announce but a single possibility of fortune, among all infinite possibilities, to be the one endowed with intellect.

Compare, then, why must we compare? Creatures created alike, such as man, exist wherever they dwell, but what is different in them, in any human, if not what allows them to be molded? To found is fundamental. To authorize for the sake of authorizing, to segregate for the sake of segregating, yet always maintaining the sense, the sense within oneself. A primitive notion, bestial, yet with an addition—"reasons." As many as can be, all those that can be united, yet without always presenting the ultimate cause to which we are instinctively driven.

The cause among all causes, for to affirm this ultimate cause, which comes through the recognition of order, compels the one who recognizes no law over himself, who as a subject is no one within the infinity of orders. The non-recognition of what lies beyond the human is the true origin of the verdict.

Non serviam—not because this edict of unrestricted free will does not exist, but because it can only exist in death. A named act, a judgment passed, a consciousness that, in turn, is a molecule, dwelling only in the abstract, and turned into a particle, and being a particle, to desire to return to the integral act, it must reverse the essential order from the infinite to the particular. Said and done, it has taken form while formless, for its possibilities lay latent, imitating breath, it tempts with its voice the divine son to fall into death.

That death, not understood as it is commonly understood (as the end, as nothingness), becomes an act, from the celestial to the earthly, doors closed and a new world, yet near death, they have been cast to the frontier—between what? Between life and death. For what? To punish. With what purpose? To remedy. Remedy what? The betrayal that has been committed. What betrayal has been committed? The one affirmed since the beginning of the world.

The symbolic has been dissolved, and the word has become chimerical, dwelling between the symbolic and the diabolical (the one or the other), integrator and disintegrator as one, the truly done is the negation of the absolute, and the absolute affirmation of the immanent gives rise to mere knowledge, all is representation (εἴδωλον = image). Why does only the representable remain? Because by not affirming the absolute over the ordering of things, harmony is no longer fact but possibility, a probable among probables, and an absolute among absolutes.

Only chance remains, the attempt to affirm that the causes which claim to have no cause can only arise from a sort of spontaneous order affirmed with all certainty, as if from there everything emerged, nothing more. That spontaneity is the only affirmation left to avoid the suspicion of an atemporal, continuous order. For to notice that this notion of things surpassing reason exists in another way would imply accepting, even if step by step, that there is a total absolute, an ineffable. What, then, would those who deny the absolute think upon discovering it as the most probable, even if it is impossible? Fear, much fear, for from the absolute that is affirmed, from the affirmation that is made, analogous to the affirmations the particle makes of itself and others, begins to arise the suspicion that this particle is within a cluster, and this cluster is part of something greater, which produces fear, for it is also conscious.

How does the one above all things order? As he wills, as he hopes, as he must. There is no affirmation above him, but above all, there is doubt permitted because it is always expected that the affirmation resides in him. Self-confirmed doubt, assured condemnation, like the sinking into any lake, knowledge is an unfathomable abyss for those who sound it. What would knowing matter if it were not for the correspondence expected to dwell in the certainty of the ally, yet with the eager hope of being reciprocated.

«I will serve» The True Edict

Upon Him who was, who is, and who will be, rests the authentic sovereign affirmation. Sacrifice, He declares before and after dying on Golgotha. In His sigh, tranquility is heard, from the drop that falls upon the trembling earth, from the temple veils torn asunder, and from the eternal truth revealed to all nations. Body and blood. King, man, and God—what can be expected from this apparent contradiction?

A man who considers himself eternal and the continuation of the divine lineage, and at the same time, the very origin, if by His own He affirms the absolute, sovereign and true, by consequence, no other edict remains for Him but sacrifice. Sacrifice is the most absolute negation of oneself for the other, and what true goodness would there be in one who, even seen as a man, affirms Himself as God, and passing judgment upon all, chooses to sacrifice Himself for all humanity, from the beginning of the earthly father to the infinity of the last to come. Blood for blood, from a lineage of divine creation with likeness but not equality, from which even the Creator, in a fleeting moment, repented, yet not without immediately finding the solution—forgiveness.

That man, once affirmed in sacrifice following the proclamation of His divinity, gives temporal proof of His resurrection, no longer discovered as man. Now He is the Man of men, the Lord of lords, the King of kings. Now He is God. Seen in eternity between the apparent fatal punishment of death and the judgment upon those who, in their pride, have understood their own affirmation as truth, they cease not to suffer in the world they inhabit, yet they are no longer awaited, for they have lost all hope by believing in that world which they do not inhabit, yet awaits them.

True freedom resides in self-sacrifice, for value arises where life is worth nothing, yet worth everything for the other. Where is the one for whom I would sacrifice myself? Where is the one for whom my life would remain? Without bond, without community, without a place to return, sacrifice is taken by pride, and immanence makes its presence known, for it is to be noted that to deny oneself for the other when no one denies themselves implies, by implicit means, that no one denies themselves, but all affirm themselves against all.

Set in firmness, each takes their place, no longer merely the master of their destiny, but also of their judgment. I will serve, I will serve—whom will I serve? One is only a servant if by some pact or act it is concluded. It is the establishment of the contract, and such a verdict brings within itself the death of the bond.

What will be that resource which, claiming all denial of oneself, corresponds with the bond? Sacrifice. This ultimate state of all order always demands, in its combative mode, the annihilation of the self, not without end, not without escape into the abyss, but in the rescue of another. Sacrifice always demands, always combats, always harasses, always troubles. It does not cease, never ceases, until it is fulfilled.

Sacrifice is the price to be paid for all. A price always given to another, even when no one expected it. When no one desired it, there lies that eternity which awaits anyone. And with the wait comes torture, with torture comes madness. But in memory always lingers the sense of self-denial.

Herein lies the true edict, and herein lies the astonishment it generates. Who can understand something beyond the simple words of seeking self-annihilation? There lies the true confusion. Where does that orientation born of denial lead? To deny oneself—what does it truly mean?

Where is there a greater question than in the ineffability of the divine, in that orientation which plunges into the eternity of truth? How to correspond this to God? Our Father, preached through the ages, can give no more than the mark of the servant. Not expecting obedience. No. Above all, correspondence is expected.

The sacrifice of a man, who is God, who is spirit, who dies, who resurrects, shows the utmost clarity of this rite. The authenticity of being able to take it all. Not emerging unscathed from the foreseen result, He marks time in the days of His resurrection, not deeming more words necessary, ascends again to His home, awaiting, in that small temporality which appears eternal, and which marks a troubling eagerness, the grave outcome that is, and will be, human history, moved by the arrival of Adam. Back to His home.

Is it a sin of ignorance to attempt the free examination of thought? This very question arose during the Protestant Reformation, born from a series of propositions laid forth by a certain friar named Martin Luther. Weariness, perhaps, had consumed the man. Disregarding the norms of the Church, bewildered, it may be, by the disobedience of those who professed virtue to the masses while threatening them with punishment for failing to uphold it—though many of those very men had failed to uphold it themselves. Wounded, possibly, by how some within the Church had exploited their positions of power to commit the most vile acts, never before seen.

There is a certain comedy in knowing that his opposition to the very community he was part of was driven by an ideal of virtue, yet guided by his own vices. For that poor and wretched man, lacking the discernment to act as a remedy within the Church, would ultimately become a poison, breeding strangeness within its very walls.

Behold, a declaration that the court of Rome would make in the 16th century:

«It is not true,’ M. Guizot will reply, ‘that in the 16th century the court of Rome was particularly tyrannical; it is not true that the abuses, properly so called, were more numerous or more grievous than they had been up to that time. On the contrary, never perhaps had ecclesiastical government shown itself more condescending and tolerant, more willing to let things go their way—so long as its power was not questioned, so long as its rights were recognized, even if left unexercised; so long as its very existence was assured, and its tributes paid. In this manner, the ecclesiastical government would have left the human spirit in peace, if only the human spirit had been willing to do the same in return.»1

It is precisely at the point where an authority begins to lose its sovereignty to shelter and instruct its faithful that others, near to it or even within it, start to emerge—not to do anything else but to preach what they call their own truths, using every means to establish their new authority. Father Balmes will detect one or two errors that M. Guizot, it seems, has committed, as he mentions in the following paragraph:

«He completely forgot,’ Father Balmes observes, ‘that he had laid down all these premises to declare that the Protestant Reformation was a grand effort in the name of liberty, a rising of human intelligence. Yet he offers us nothing, recalls nothing, to suggest that the Church opposed this liberty. And even if something could have provoked such a rising—such as intolerance, cruelty, or a refusal to leave the human spirit in peace—M. Guizot has already told us that the ecclesiastical government in the 16th century was not tyrannical. On the contrary, it was condescending, tolerant, and would have gladly left the human spirit undisturbed.»2

Beneath the veil of these observations, it is no extraordinary surprise that these efforts in the name of freedom of thought may, over the centuries to come, prove to be a folly. For a word so vague, indefinable, and directionless can only be given meaning by those who prescribe it—and who are these but those who assert their own sovereignty? And who are the citizens but those who desire the entirety of that sovereignty? What happens, then, when freedom is ascribed to an object such as thought? You will see before your eyes, historically, methodically, and ultimately religiously, how everything—even in its denial—requires a faith and someone to embody it, so that it may endure and not perish. And that someone will not be an authority outside the sovereignty of man.

Is man, then, his own guarantor, his own reformer, his own validator? There can be no doubt that where such self-sovereignty is asserted, an unfathomable abyss opens—one that humanity, as a whole, cannot fill, and the individual, as a political subject (a citizen), now reduced to a mere individual, will fill even less. It must be shown how such an assertion has come to pass. One that, lacking external guidance and relying solely on itself, lacking any norm but its own whims, leads to places never before seen—always at the mercy of those who understand and desire power. We shall develop these notions throughout this text.

Passing through all the phases of error that arise from abandoning obedience, nations have gradually fallen into rebellion. Once the present norm is rejected, they scour their minds for every kind of idea to be decreed as the new order, drinking and twisting the ancient norms that came before, yielding strange fruits that are carefully planted—first in the spirit of each man, then in his mind, until finally those seeds germinate in his works, just as he has been instructed to act.

What better work than one that can be affirmed from one’s own sovereignty? What finer feast than to embellish every detail with one’s own words? Behold, then, the first essential notion of things: the supposed emancipation from the servitude of a master, denying his blessing, swiftly distancing oneself from him, swiftly forgetting him, to create one’s own sovereignty—to become one’s own master.

It borders the valleys where the footsteps of the new sovereign echo, who, fearful yet passionate for discovery, will do all he can to obtain what he desires. But once the deed is announced, weakness follows, for the sovereign learns that he is not the only one who has emancipated himself. A spectator of events similar to his own, he freely examines the possibilities before him. There are sovereigns whose order dictates. He treads his own ground. Among those hosts who convince others, if they divide their abundance equally; this one, in the paranoia he constructs, decides to wage war against all existing sovereignties.

Confident in having served his master diligently for so long, he knows the weaknesses of every human spirit. Bringing them to light in decrees and sermons, he sweetens the ears of those who feel their reward has been withheld. What is denied more obviously than what the present authorities have failed to deliver? What is brought forth in accusation against formed communities if not the hypocrisy with which they have maintained themselves? Yet, unsatisfied even when he has invaded all possible sovereignties, he decides to turn all the conquered into his own servants.

Having emancipated himself from his master to live freely, he soon realizes that such freedom must come under a norm. And faced with the void, the first contradiction of this sovereign emerges. He expected freedom to be the fruit of emancipation. How easy it was for him to assert possibilities without paying attention to what he preached, without using any discernment to test what he proclaimed to his servants—to accept that those whose understanding does not align with their master will inevitably provoke the same rebellion he himself acted out against his master. What is this but rebellion?

For no word is enough unless it is believed, no empty belief is enough unless it is inhabited by discernment, no eternal doubt is enough unless it is humbled, no humility—turned into naivety—is enough unless it is chastened by courage, and no boldness—turned into recklessness—is enough unless it is guided by intelligence. And in the end, that intelligence has, since its creation, adopted belief.

What has man done by asserting himself in rivalry with his master? He will fall into idolatry, blinded by his faith; he will become a skeptic or a fool by depriving himself of all public discourse; he will grow proud, for his humility is but a façade that rots with time; he will become reckless, for fear compels him to deny trust in both the weak and the strong—the weak because they are quick to rebel and overthrow him, the strong because they overthrow him without hesitation. In the end, he is an ignorant and wretched man whose meaning perishes because it dies with him constantly.

That rotting flesh, emerging from its preservation, suffers chastisement as it seeks the barrel from which it has fallen—if indeed it has fallen at all, for it has long desired to escape. It rejected eternity because it found it boring; it rejected tranquility because it found it unsatisfying. Now that the remedy has become a community, it seeks to attack and destroy it, secularizing it, poisoning it little by little.

Where does such a desire for emancipation arise if not from the noble cause of seeking freedom?

«Freedom: this is one of those words so widely used yet so poorly understood; words that, by wrapping themselves in a vague idea easily perceived, present the deceptive appearance of perfect clarity, while, due to the multitude and variety of objects to which they are applied, they become susceptible to an infinite number of meanings, making their true comprehension exceedingly difficult. And who could ever reduce to a simple formula the countless applications of the word freedom? While preserving in all of them an idea we might call radical, the modifications and gradations to which it is subjected are infinite.»3

And what can be expected from emancipation without any guide but oneself? There is no other way but to rely on one’s own position, on the effectiveness of practicality. And what practicality is more evident than one’s own? For he who conceives and deduces can be no other than oneself, obliged to memorize every phenomenon he experiences. It is there, precisely, that the problem of such emancipation begins.

When we speak here of the supposed sovereign, pretentious in his singularity, stripped of the added grace he has cast aside, we see a man no longer created by God, no longer a creation, no longer even a man—now he is an individual. He sees in freedom the true value, the meaning of all things. And yet, unwittingly, what comes with it often reveals the abyss that terrifies him.

Unrestrained, unwilling to pay the price for his freedom, he constantly cries out, lamenting the cowardly escape he has made. He has acted in hasty zeal, and, refusing to face reality, he masks it with strokes of lies and perishable luxuries.

Practical is this human, sovereign over himself, stripped of the shelter of the Church, who now, seeing the reality of its failures, embarks on the adventure of creating his own enterprise. He convinces as many as he can to fight for freedom, emancipating even language to his providence, and his authority establishes foundations and principles that must be imposed on others.

That poor wretch has sinned egregiously, for he has done nothing more foolish than to build a home on the border between truth and falsehood. There is no truth that remains in one who perishes; while convincing as many as he can, he fails to realize that his sovereignty ends with his death, for the word is distorted when inherited by his plebeians. They, following the principle of their master, order the transmutation of his commands into new commands, of his principles into new principles. What is affirmed of the order of knowledge if not its infinite possibilities when absolutes are denied?

They drink from the spring, refusing to admit that anyone built it; they drink from it, confident that the liquor was not created by anyone, denying the origin that fills it, denying the place from which it flows. They fall into the abyss of skepticism, immanent, stripped of the divine.

A delicate situation has been constructed, a place where humanity has placed itself by failing to realize that dreams, to become reality, must walk the path of sacrifice, while fantasies suffice themselves with mere illusion. Thus, that freedom seen on the border will undoubtedly lead us to an abyss close to death.

Just as we see a painting where the sun rests on the horizon without revealing whether its light comes from dawn or dusk, so too will our free examination lead us to truth without confirming whether it is authentic or not, delivering a verdict that clearly hurls us into the abyss of abstraction.