After death, there will be nothing—not because there is an "after." The brain stops working, the flesh rots, the blood stops flowing. The process is simple, chemical, mechanical: an organic machine shuts down and decomposes. No trace of us remains, no residue of consciousness. And yet, calling it an "end" would already be assigning a meaning that never existed in the first place. Life doesn't end because it never began with a purpose.
We are nothing more than the accumulation of biochemical reactions, a mistake repeated billions of times, a tangle of cells replicating aimlessly and uncontrollably, producing among their byproducts the most useless and harmful thing ever created: consciousness. Thought is not a gift; it's a manufacturing defect. An aberration that condemns us to an endless cycle of pain, hunger, fear, survival, and decay.
Every cell in our body deteriorates and reproduces with the sole purpose of prolonging its own meaningless existence until its cycle ends and the body is dismantled piece by piece, digested by bacteria, reduced to sludge and gas. The nervous system is a network of pure suffering, a mass of electrified flesh that does nothing but register pain, accumulate it, repeat it, amplify it. Everything we perceive is nothing more than the result of continuous deterioration.
And while we are here, trapped in these decaying bodies, we desperately try to assign value to something that has none. We create words like "purpose," "meaning," "importance," as if they were something real. But they are just noises emitted by a lump of flesh to drown out the silence of its impending decomposition.
Life is just this: a sequence of biological spasms that repeat until total collapse. Every breath is just an automatic contraction before the final shutdown. There is nothing to understand, nothing to discover, nothing to wait for. Just a machine of flesh wearing itself down until it stops.
And that's how it ends. Not because there is an ending, but because nothing was ever more than this.
