Write a blog post? So, some good news to give courage to other authors?
Why?
What is the point?
In the random and chaotic fabric of reality, past the veil of indifference and meaninglessness, there is this one man, this one solitary soul that is given the burden of creation. That figure is me, a depressed nihilist, locked in the agonizing self indiligible effort that is writing, and staring at a blank page.
They say writing is a means of expression, a way through which thoughts, feelings become their own independent entities. But what thoughts can I think, and what feelings can I feel, in a world without significance? What I type onto this screen feels like nothingness, devoid of substance, like the echoes in an empty void.
All your keystrokes are Sisyphus writes, Sisyphean, a pointless exercise in weaving meaning to a void. In a universe where there are no greater schemes or designs, subject to a physics that preserves the past, makes the future inevitable, and were the so-called Battle of Human Nature is slung in-between, what the hell is the point of writing anything at all?
The burden of life crushes my soul with its indifferent weight. As my words fill the empty space, the blank page taunts me, a symbol of the void that reigns in my psyche. Utterly, completely insignificant; a single grain of dust in the vast cosmic arena of existence.
But despite my existential despair, I feel the need to write. Maybe it’s the final act of resistance against the absurdity of existence, a desperate clawing at the empty void to blow raspberries with the little time we have. Maybe its just a habit; a habit brewed into my old bones; a distraction from time’s unyielding momentum towards the void.
But as I try and stitch sentences one after another all over again, I cannot shake the sense of futility that engulfs every single word. My words are meaningless in a universe that does not even consider my existence. Who will hear these words and how will they fit into the larger weave?
At the end of the day, I write because I have to and not because I have some great purpose or meaning to offer. It’s a cathartic release, a brief respite in an otherwise miserable life. And here I am, typing away, wishing it would stop, wishing I could go back 30 minutes, wishing it would all make sense and not be senseless at all.
But at the back of my mind, I know that I am just wasting my time. For what, in a universe ruled by chaos and entropy, where stars are born and die in a never-ending cycle of creation and destruction, what significance, really, could one individual’s writing possibly have? None, perhaps. And yet, I write. For within the pages of writing, I discover a sense of hope, an ephemeral illusion of sense in a senseless existence.
Ah, but I could hardly forget. Something uplifting. Well… have a nice day. 🙂
That was parody, in case you didn’t realize. But we do really want you to enjoy your day!
