0.0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000002% is all it takes.


It is thus, the human tragedy, the spiral of despair.


Is it not that all our joyous moments, those glimmers of levity and spiritual euphoria, fall by the wayside for the great Existential Ambush that awaits at every bend? Doom lurks, hungry to denounce our petty frivolity. And all our happiness is petty for it is constructed upon layers and layers of capricious external emotionality. We don’t deserve our happiness, as humans, and existence apparently sees fit to pound this fact into our quivering little heads as an innate element of the privilege to walk this earth for about 0.0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000002% of its cosmic existence.


People speak of living forever.


As if it would be such a great thing given the rudimentary facts of human existence which are fraught with the zero sum dark cloud of absolute human perdition. This is the great equality which burdens us. All good will come to an end, but not only an end, but a crashing rebuff designed to snuff out our ill-conceived glory.


Smiles await tears, and good fortune awaits grief.


You may live forever but your life will be filled with the great cosmic hemming and hawing of fortune. Our program was not written to prosper nor to suffer…merely to be. As humans, we seek to indulge in too much happiness for our own good. We seek ecstatic drunkeness, the perpetual sort. In this quest for joy we unleash the torments of misfortune.


Man is presumptuous and is lost in the fake assuredness of his own fate. The Present, promising its own implied stability (I think, therefore I am). He constructs a social system around the smug acceptance that tomorow will be alive to greet, and that the unfolding of existence is ours for the wishing. In fact, I wrote this post earlier and scheduled it to post at Noon. That, in itself, is smug and meta-absurd. That I would post a short essay about the abrupt capricious utilitarianism of life and be so bold as to schedule it to publish in the unforeseen future bespeaks the greatest level of presumption on my part; Noon. Whence I went?


Fight that.