L'absent
À ma manière 🪦
- Aug 18, 2024
- 1,375
Existence is the most abhorrent of paradoxes, an insult to the nothingness from which it emerges and to which it is inevitably doomed to return. No one has chosen to be born, no one has requested the privilege of consciousness, yet we find ourselves cast into this cosmic farce, this theater of the absurd where the sole leitmotif is suffering—the very essence of being. Life is nothing but a biological accident, an imperfection of entropy, a process that perpetuates itself without purpose, an unrelenting impulse toward consumption and dissolution.
Attempts are made to clothe the abyss in consolatory illusions: meaning, love, beauty. Yet all of these are but ephemeral flickers in the void, linguistic deceptions designed to obscure the glaring reality of absolute insignificance. The ultimate proof of the futility of being is that it must be justified in order to bear its own weight. That which possesses intrinsic value asserts itself without the need for justification; existence, by contrast, is a sickness clinging desperately to itself, a closed circuit of anguish and decay that drags itself toward the void from which it arose.
The universe is indifferent, consciousness is an accident, will is an illusion, and hope is a saccharine poison that merely prolongs the torture of waiting. Every bond is a chain, every breath a sentence, every moment a tribute to the absurdity of a cycle with no beginning and no end, only the infinite repetition of suffering. Stars collapse, empires fade, gods perish, and humanity writhes in a feverish dream from which it cannot awaken, deluded into believing it can shape meaning where only the void reigns supreme.
Attempts are made to clothe the abyss in consolatory illusions: meaning, love, beauty. Yet all of these are but ephemeral flickers in the void, linguistic deceptions designed to obscure the glaring reality of absolute insignificance. The ultimate proof of the futility of being is that it must be justified in order to bear its own weight. That which possesses intrinsic value asserts itself without the need for justification; existence, by contrast, is a sickness clinging desperately to itself, a closed circuit of anguish and decay that drags itself toward the void from which it arose.
The universe is indifferent, consciousness is an accident, will is an illusion, and hope is a saccharine poison that merely prolongs the torture of waiting. Every bond is a chain, every breath a sentence, every moment a tribute to the absurdity of a cycle with no beginning and no end, only the infinite repetition of suffering. Stars collapse, empires fade, gods perish, and humanity writhes in a feverish dream from which it cannot awaken, deluded into believing it can shape meaning where only the void reigns supreme.
