The temporary nature of things is bearing down on me hard. I feel death encroaching on everything I love and hate and don't care for. Every second that passes delivers me closer to my absolute end, and what was it all for? What was my life about?
I'm trying in vain to reach into the greater things, to grasp ideas greater men than I conceived and explored, but I just can't. I feel painfully inadequate to be anything other than I am. Was it determined to be this way since I was born, I wonder, or was it the way I grew up, or was it written from the moment the universe began its tireless motion that I would write this post, feeling as I do. I don't know and I will never know because I am no genius, not even intelligent. I am no artist, no philosopher, no writer. I am nothing.
I don't feel like a puppet on strings, I feel like the motion coursing through the strings. I don't know who the puppetmaster is. I don't know what I'm making dance. I don't know if there's an audience at all.
Although every second feels precious, I don't know what's the deal. I thought I was having fun until I wasn't. I thought I heard the calling of something greater than me one or twice, but there's silence all around. What I do hear constantly, is the grinding of bones, the tearing of flesh, cries and screams of horror and pain. I see this worldwide parade of undeterred, unstoppable violence blaring 24/7, cutting through my escapist distractions and rendering every single dream I ever had moot and pointless before the mammoth size of this eternal calamity. Did I ever have fun, I wonder.
And then I think of eternal recurrence, I think of doing this over and over and over, forever. And I think about what my next move should be, what my death will be like, because I will live it eternally. Every second forever repeating, the good the bad and the ugly, but all of it aimless.
What am I setting myself up for, I wonder.