The end.
Have you ever searched aimlessly for a meaning to that which was meaningless? Forever wandering without direction, guidance, or comfort through a forest whose shade offers no protection from the torturous sun, but instead the limbs of those elderly trees reach out to you in hopes of robbing you of life to sustain their own; thirsting for blood as they yearn for nothing more than the waters of Father Sky. Perhaps this is how it’s meant to be; we destroy everything in our path only to lay asphalt in hopes that we’ll be wise enough, strong enough, and secure enough to support ourselves. We are a lost species. I am a lost individual. I don’t want to destroy this earth anymore; I don’t want to destroy myself anymore. Annihilation. That’s the finality of it all; the end which will be seen by no one. It’s as though I’ve dipped my pen into that ancient fount and found a lack of ink and as I attempt to write words upon the pages of the book of my life I come to realize that the words have already been written and the ink is dry. So this is it? No beautiful novel for which to adorn the shelves of the bookcases of another generation; or perhaps written with ones and zeros unto the silicon memory of some magnetic drive whirling away, spinning aimlessly to indulge the fantasies of our youth? No libraries to burn, just terabytes of ones-signifying the utter loneliness-and zeros, signifying nothing.
I wept during Macbeth.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
And you know the brilliance of it all? He breaks the pentameter only briefly but is still sane enough to understand the frailty of life. A fool doesn’t impart this knowledge upon the audience, a man does.
Guilty. Perhaps that’s how I’ll describe my last emotions. An utter knowledge of my own failures. Knowledge, not a single emotion brought forth from what remains of this mortal body and soul, but rather necessitated by society. The last thing I hope to feel is a feeling that was taught to me. I want to be void of everything which makes me fail; my utter humanity. I want the wisdom that acknowledges my utter hopelessness! I want to feel guilt.
Some immortal being has shaped this soul into a great sea; great, infinite, divine, not of man. But man fears the sea, the way it billows and devours. We as a species are more aware of what lies beyond this world in the heavens then we are aware of that which brings us sustenance. Pisces. The dreamer. Swimming furiously though the seas of their own soul and emotional discourse. Humanity has dried up these seas and I fear there is no place left in which to spoil this undying wanderlust. Or perhaps it was I who dried up the great seas, feeding my terrible thirst. Exhausted, weak, and hopelessly alone, I’ve seen everything I can see. “Hopeless” is mutter from the lips of a lost soul.
I hate everything.
I wept during Macbeth.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
And you know the brilliance of it all? He breaks the pentameter only briefly but is still sane enough to understand the frailty of life. A fool doesn’t impart this knowledge upon the audience, a man does.
Guilty. Perhaps that’s how I’ll describe my last emotions. An utter knowledge of my own failures. Knowledge, not a single emotion brought forth from what remains of this mortal body and soul, but rather necessitated by society. The last thing I hope to feel is a feeling that was taught to me. I want to be void of everything which makes me fail; my utter humanity. I want the wisdom that acknowledges my utter hopelessness! I want to feel guilt.
Some immortal being has shaped this soul into a great sea; great, infinite, divine, not of man. But man fears the sea, the way it billows and devours. We as a species are more aware of what lies beyond this world in the heavens then we are aware of that which brings us sustenance. Pisces. The dreamer. Swimming furiously though the seas of their own soul and emotional discourse. Humanity has dried up these seas and I fear there is no place left in which to spoil this undying wanderlust. Or perhaps it was I who dried up the great seas, feeding my terrible thirst. Exhausted, weak, and hopelessly alone, I’ve seen everything I can see. “Hopeless” is mutter from the lips of a lost soul.
I hate everything.