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Emperor of the World

There is no emperor of the world; not because there is an absence of what the depraved sociologist Foucauldians would term power structures - for, certainly, empirically distinct forms of power subsist, enacting their prosaic effects on the equally prosaic actions of the proletariat, and so, as to remain contemporary, despite our endemic resistance to do so, one can cite the current mob mobilization of the collective body against facades of capitalist hegemonic determination as a case of the recognition of such a presence of power -  rather, there is no emperor of the world, because there is no world. The emperor may very well be amongst the living, yet he patiently waits for the re-appearance of a world that he may claim as his expansive demesne. This means that the resolute aristocrats, longing for order to be once again inaugurated unto the terrestrial plane, are oblivious to the possibility that the pre-condition for the parousiac emergence of the emperor is not the emperor himself, but rather the world as the epigeal sediment upon which the emperor may first set the lower appendages that are his legs. To put order into the world, there first has to be a world into which order is put.

Following this ambiguity that surrounds the proper causal sequence of the introduction of an organic syntactic rigour within the dirtiness of existence, it is therefore plausible that the emperor exists some place, dispassionately meditating in a derelict and miserable anchorite hovel. Yet what is perhaps most horrific to those who are ill-dispersed to the conception of an anarchic foundation for all of creation, that is, one in which even the laws of nature themselves are bereft and corrupt, is that the emperor will not return once a minimal equilibrium that could be called a world has been restored, but rather that the emperor has attained the enlightened conclusion that there never was nor ever will be such a minimal equilibrium that could be called a world, such that his reign in historical antiquity was all but an empty charlatanism. This great Akhenaton renounces the very possibility of both his previous supremacy and his glorious new emergence, as he understands that what he claimed to rule was in fact nothing, and he thus finds himself in a vulgar union with the figure of the pauper. The emperor has understood that the so-called “world” that he directed was an empty void inhabited by bloated grunting animals and dancing idiot particles. He is ashamed at himself for having been the emperor of such an innocuous mass of vapid tissue.