If there is a mystery it is the mystery of the One. The singular. The unity.
How is it that in a world of such ludicrous diversity and disorder there is always underlying this infinite chaos a bedrock of pure and empty unity? For as quickly as the skeptic or deconstructionist denies the reality of any such unity and lambastes it as mere appearance, myth, illusion, or ideology she finds herself incanting into existence the same unity in terms of which the deconstruction and doubting of that very unity can take place. The low drone of constancy carries chaos on its back.
Granted the invincibility of the singular only pertains to the One as genus; every species of unity is itself, however, vulnerable to erosion. Even those supposedly transcendental determinations of the synthetic unity of apperception are every one of them perishable, mutable, and defeasible. All but the unity of the synthesis itself. There is a conservation of unity in every disintegration, in every flux and deletion. But don’t we have a name for this conservation? Is it not Time that is the skeleton of chaos? The bone on which the flesh of chance grows?
Time is the space of negation. To do away with the One then we must do away with Time. But this cannot be accomplished through negation. This is why Critique (which is self-conscious and therefore responsible skepticism) is not the proper method of metaphysics. For Critique manufactures that which it seeks to go beyond, namely, TIme and Unity. The Self, the Concept, the One. TIme seems to be an absolute from which even the Absolute cannot escape.