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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

A desperate musing into the futility of life and the contradiction of infinity.

Submitted: November 01, 2017

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Submitted: November 01, 2017



A memory serves as a clandestine view of something that was, in a way that it wasn't. Rose-tinted glasses to don when you need an escape, a passageway to a simpler time. You had no problems then, at least not like you do now. Why hadn't you appreciated it, when then was now and now was then?

But then: you already know the answer to that. You were too busy stressing and fretting about whatever it was that you were stressed about back then. What a stupid waste of time. You didn't have anything to worry about, at least not like you do now.

Ah well. All gone now. At least you know better...

Then again, you can make anything sound stupid with a wide enough perspective. And maybe you're right that nothing mattered back then but why the hell do you think anything's different today? Or will be different when you look upon today's quarrels with the same uninterested disregard that you view yesterday with, today.

So life's pointless and you're wasting it anyway. That's encouraging.

So why, if nothing matters are you so worried about whatever it is you're so worried about? The mere fact that you're so scared shows that your life has some form of meaning, to you at least. But what is something that has meaning to a creature that doesn't?

Technically, the human brain remembers nothing. What we think of as a memory is really just a firing of nerves; a recreation of something that did happen in the way that we think it happened. If you try to think about an event in the past in detail, real detail, like the colour of the fence in the background, the slight misplacement of her hair and the crisp autumn leaves raining down upon the scene you'll find you can't. The closer you look, the vaguer it becomes and the longer it's been the less it's true. Your mind and memory rots just as your arm and the flesh it holds does. All completely worthless and yet programmed with an irrevocable urge to continue itself. To see one more sunrise and the meaning it may or may not contain.

You stand, even as you sit here whining to yourself, on the thinnest sliver at the end of humanities' timeline where you are free. Free to live as you please on a floating globe spinning around an infinite abyss with finite time and infinite things to do. So you keep sitting there feeling sorry for yourself while the seconds tick by. You keep complaining that your life is meaningless while at the same time doing nothing and therefore making it so. You are alive. You weren't a hundred years ago and you won't be a hundred years on from now but you can't go back and you can't stop traveling forward, so sieze today, the only day you know you've got and make it something worth remembering. The only day that matters is today. You are alive today. You have a meaning today. Life does not have to be a closed circle, with the same routine day by day until eventually you die, remembered by no one, missed by no one, not even a footnote in the Universe's great Doomsday book. Life can be a tree, with infinite branches that represent infinite decisions and infinite pathways that lead to infinite destinations. Finite life is not meaningless; infinite life is. What's the point in the sunrise if there's infinite sunrises tomorrow? Why should you do whatever it is you want to do when infinities' very nature dictates that you have already done it infinite times and will do it again infinite times? In infinity everything is zero percent of your life. It's a journey with no destination, no reason. It's the adrenaline rush, the frantically ticking clock, the mesmerising despair of a faded Universe that gives life its meaning. And why does it matter what you can see off in the future or what you remember of yesterday when you can stand here and say that you are truly happy, today.

© Copyright 2019 Daniel Simpson. All rights reserved.

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