I’ve long known something most people will never realize: Life on earth is completely meaningless. We are basically just glorified cockroaches, scampering about with an inane self of self-importance, never pausing to take stock of the overriding emptiness of it all. All the shit we obsess about and gossip about and blab about for years amounts to a hill of garbage, just so much disposable minutiae with all the lasting value of unrefrigerated bagels. We are merely filling time here, and I can assure you there’s absolutely nothing more to it! The reason mankind invented religion is to lend some substance to our existence and to pretend there’s some greater reward for getting through it, but it’s all a fake–we’re alone and we’re frauds.
However–yes, there is a but–it’s imperative that we PRETEND life has meaning. We must ACT as if our time spent here actually matters beyond the moment, carrying on like there’s a larger picture which imparts significance to our every gesture. If we don’t, we will surely go insane from the aching awareness of our own hollowness. We’ll become irresponsible and reckless and hurt people’s feelings by not being good citizens in this made-up society of pseudo big shots.
So my philosophy is to soldier on as if there’s a grand purpose to life, while keeping to myself the knowledge that we are tiny specks of dust simply waiting for one last swoop from the giant dustbuster in the sky. Get my meaning?