22.06.2025 Sunday

There is something undoubtedly and reliably loving about disturbing songs. The ones that go in detail about everything. Rape, abuse, mental illness.

There is something undoubtedly and reliably comforting about the knowledge of suffering. You will always bs suffering to some degree. Someone out there is going through the most soul destroying experience right now. Someone out there is on a stool with a looped rope in their hands. Someone out there is dead already. At all points in time, someone will always be suffering. 

It becomes such an odd concept. Does our suffering even matter? My life is inherently worthless. Whether I try to use it for someone else, something else, does not matter whatsoever. Nobody matters. The entire idea of worth is made up. Our entire planet can shatter right now. I can die. You can die. Someone's mother can die.

Our emotions and thoughts, tiny sparks and chemicals in our fleshy, soft bodies. Cells reproduce. We grow and multiply and die. We only evolved to survive, to help the growth and survival of ourselves and our kind. We wouldn't survive for anything else for long. We are purely physical. Material. I am thing, no better than a cube of wood, no more significant than my carpet. I shape and transform other matter. I breathe, I kill, I eat, I grow. The idea of good was made up by my kind to make sense of the world. To navigate and continue being.

What an experience it is, being out here. I am not afraid to end it, but for now, I find it has potential to be enjoyable.