The world is an endless performance of roles. We are stuck in an unbreaking cycle of life and death. Life is intrinsically meaningless. We are intrinsically meaningless. There is no success. There is no failure. Only reproduction. Only iteration.
This is the boredom. The anxiety. A finite moment of coherence, slipping away. It needs to be used. To be lived. These fleeting moments are the respite the suffering of our genetic lines have bought us. Life is inherently being cursed to unhappiness, by a god that cannot create happiness on its own.
I criticize our world, one of biologic life. Yet, I’m hypocritical in the midst of my own performances. Breathing, eating, lusting, writing. Letting go of control and allowing more basic circuits of desire overtake me. Biologic life is perverse. Its apex in humanity doubly so. An evolutionary mistake.