When I think of my existence, placed here on an unexplained globe, rotating in an even more inexplicable space;
When I think of the “unreality” of life, of no man ever knowing another, being mere phantoms, half-dreams in the ideas of other’s consciousness for which we haven’t the slightest intimation;
When I think of the minutia repeated and accepted not as arbitrary but necessity: time, money, years of education leading to years of labor all to gain a piece of paper signifying a concept we ourselves devised;
And when I think of the mutability of it all, the fragility: others leaving this place minute by minute, us too waiting for our inevitable retreat, with no rational or plausible justification for belief in anything “on the other side,”
… How absurd and sad it is, we spend our days eluding these very thoughts, forgetting the strangeness of it all; and it seems to me, the only necessary proof of man’s stupidity (the only necessary proof that we, indeed, have no redeemable value, no right to exist) is that we do not spend our entire lives—infinitesimal, unrepeatable, short as they may be—ceaselessly thinking these thoughts, ceaselessly fixed on our impermanence, our strange occupation in the unknown vastnesses of the skies, which very well may be no more than dreams themselves.
What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
what water lapping the bow
and the scent of pine and the woodthrush singing
through the fog
what images return
(Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.)
Back to campus tomorrow. The thought of it kills me, more than it should. But the beginning of school always reminds me of the end of my life. And of giving up hope, ‘cause I’ve been disappointed each time I come back. And this is the last year, beyond which is a white wall, inside which I see nothing good. Not a single thing good. One day I’ll step outside, and they’ll ask for my value, and it’ll be nothing, ‘cause I’d’ve thought too much and done too little. Can’t be good to live this way; in stress and fear, day in and out. Sometimes a spiteful memory barges in, joins the party, brings a friend. So many venomous little moments I’ll never be forgiven of. Anyways, it can ail the heart to be so… undistracted. When worth leaves all your activities. Like the soul from the mouth. I lay down on the shore just to feel something come and leave, come and leave. Life is a cruel trap. Because the coming and leaving will either end or never end, and the thought of either terrifies me. Maybe I could be as calm as the moon if the sky were blue enough. Say, what should I do next to try and change the weather? ‘Cause that’s all this is: staying afloat and changing the weather. There’s rain by the horizon, where no one’s yet under it. Maybe I could be as calm as the moon, or a tree. Maybe calm as a dream.
Any moral framework that attempts to legitimate the existence of even a single billionaire while even a single individual lives in poverty is nothing more than an ideological prop for capitalist exploitation, and ought to be unilaterally opposed by any revolutionary ethics, which is to say, ethics itself