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A Moment of Clarity

I have decided that my life is not one worth preserving. In time, we will all pass. We live in a world of incredible expectation, and we all have plans for tomorrow. That is precisely the impulse for our survival: expectations of grandeur and the urge to avoid disappointment. I have only one disappointment: that I would never have sufficient time to spare the lives of those who mattered most to me. And in that, I might also wish altogether that I had never developed these meaningful relationships, because I wouldn't then need to undermine them by admitting that none of it is worthwhile. 

I hope that everyone can for a moment entertain the idea that we are all here as parasites, feeding off each other, in ways both tangible and intangible. We are all greedy. We are all searching for solutions to a greater problem we will never truly understand. We are all creating problems and designing institutions to find purpose. We are all inept, and we are all selfish. And my final act will be the most selfish, but it will be the most gratifying. I am not even in the slightest worried, saddened, depressed, or moved in this fantastic moment of clarity. We look into the skies and we often wonder what exists beyond this planet. We peer into the darkness and wonder what is possible. We observe wildlife and assume that our purpose is beyond all else. We make these sensational assumptions and yet we have nothing to show for them beyond those items which have come to define and encourage our plight. 


By existing here, you admit that this world deserves you. By existing here, you admit that you have some purpose. By existing here, you admit that it is worth it, that it is worth something. In this moment of clarity, it is not life but death which seems most fitting, as it is always our final destination. The survivors are the only ones here to tell their tale. We mourn the dead and their apparent misfortune, but we neglect to celebrate their accelerated passage into truth. We seldom venerate the evacuation of one's earthly livelihood from his physical apparatus. It's very simple. What we don't know scares us most. I will venture into the unknown, not because I am a warrior, nor because I am superior or inferior to anyone else, but because I am selfish. Such is the basis of all human action. Altruism and benevolence are not for this world, and neither is nirvana. We construct and envision our own utopias because we need them. 


Much like Sisyphus, we push our rocks uphill and, by convenience, praise and glorify the toil. For, without it, who might we be? But with it, we might be something. So it is with this clarity that I hoist the rock over my head and crush the impulse which drives the madness. This body is the source of our absurdity, and by its termination we can absolve ourselves of all of its wickedness and futile exertion. By this, we can spare the next wave of purposelessness. But by those rocks which have spoken to us, which have marveled us, which have told us how to think, what to believe, how to act, and whom to trust, and which have ostensibly given us life, we forget that we are in control. 


Instead of casting blame on the world, instead of criticizing the world, and instead of perpetuating these convenient truths, we might admit that we have been selfish. We might admit that "right" and "wrong", "should" and "shouldn't", are truisms espoused for daily convenience. We might admit that we have been indoctrinated by a life of biased exposure and hollow social inertia. We might admit. And on this occasion, as it seems always necessary to satisfy the social appetite for closure and completion, I will close by clearly declaring my overall distaste for life and everything it entails, and I will admit my fault in accepting that it might be worth it. In the end, I was wrong.  

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