World War II left the world scarred a weary. It was ordinary for nature to bring with it destructive forces this large. Screaming vortexes of pure black and totally silent on the other side, belching earth that melted the landscape nearby and plate shaking, leveling cities in a moment of quivering. But, despite this intensity, humanity had never seen such a force of unbridled suffering exacted by itself. Not only instigated, but agitated.
The Grand Narratives were naked to their insufficiency. Idealism had crescendoed to its cruel, smothering apex. Desperate for something new, philosophers, scientists and artists all searched for a new grounding, something new that they could believe in. Post-Modernism would have been its name, no matter what its contents were. And, honestly, any other contents would have been more beneficial to humanity. Literally anything.
Post-Modernism became just as de-constructive as the war that had preceded it. Sure, the Grand Narratives could no longer stand aloft, but Post-Modernism marked off the perimeter so that nothing else could be built to replace them. Instead, the philosophical landscape became this narrative void of self-analysis.
And this is the feature that is the most destructive existentially. Self-reflection is sort of a strange concept. It evokes a pair of mirrors, faced in on one another. But what is reflected? If aligned just right, you get an infinite corridor of descending projections in each mirror. Each projection loses detail and light until it cascades into the void. And this is the core problem of Post-Modernism, the void that awaits all thought in the vacuum of allowable philosophy. No longer can something exists. It must be justified, analyzed, prodded, broken, flipped on its head, reset, reconsidered, juxtaposed, mashed, remixed, reflected, defined, measured, bounded, broken out, expanded, exploded and constantly disturbed. Rest, or letting, is not an activity of the Post-Modern.
That said, it's also a reasonable response. This was a philosophy born of anxiety. WWII resolved, but it had landed so shortly after the last Great War. We could only dream that these would be the Wars to End All Wars. We could dream, but we couldn't believe. And so, the shortcomings of our old gods made us incredibly wary of any new gods. All this prodding of philosophies and narratives is just us leafing through the paperwork, making sure that nothing is embedded in the language that could fuck us over later.
But all of this analysis takes its toll.
I think I have done my perspective a bit of a disservice and I want to clarify something quickly. The Natural Folding Procession is not a difficult dance. It is exact in procession, but, it is slow and, ultimately, forgiving. Existential Surfaces aren't like paper. They do not have the irreversible memory of paper. One misfold does not doom the object.
That clarified, however, the constant prodding eye of Post-Modern culture makes folding impossible. These structures remain vast and unresolved because all of this consideration halts the extradimensional activity that goes on while its existential activity is at rest, when it is resting or being.
While I speak so ill of Post-Modernism, it comes to my attention that, perhaps, the real culprit is Narrative itself. Narrative emerged out of a misunderstanding of four-dimensional objects as three-dimensional, which may, in itself, just be a misunderstanding of five-dimensional objects as four-dimensional. Objects have a past, present (or immediate past) and future along the vector of time. However, extradimensionally, this is not the case. From what I have seen, there are at least two dimensions of time, if not more. While time unfurls in this dimension upon a vector and flowing on one trajectory, time is more of a plane and vectors can be many.
Imagine that the plane is the floor plan of a museum where each room is a different configuration of the universe. When you have a vector through this plane, each room gets played at an interval determined by the velocity of your vector and then, like a stroboscope, inert things suddenly have life and event to them. Everything that could happen exists in this museum. Narrative emerges when you place too much priority on the vector you exist within. Objects suddenly have histories and potentials, instead of a frames to be visited. You start to realize that just because things were a certain way doesn't mean they were actually that way. Your vector simply necessitated the apparition of that behavior in that object.
I've run out of time in this transmission, but, I assure you, I'll be back soon with more.