underground men

I am not a fighter. What does one do with this wretched awareness? Having survived Zarathustra’s visions only to awaken to the cold realization that I cannot exist at the edge of such an echoing abyss, that at such heights of excess my lungs choke on the thin air of fear… The race I belong to knows the wail of mourning better than the cry of battle. Do I have the strength to envision on my own, to become a prophet without a God, to invent some alternative method of madness that will alleviate the burden of this existence?