The Existentialist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 23, 2018

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Submitted: August 23, 2018

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The Existentialist

 

An open mind, an ancient soul, yet hardly anyone would extol, as this individual is so wild, and left field-y their ideas seemingly insane, unwieldy, as if someone took a hodgepodge and just tacked it together, no tact, not one bit of sense, as the person standing there refuses the slightest recompense for simply existing, and damned well, if they may say so, never truly aware of how often, wherefore, or to what locations, their mind doth wonder, what brutally descriptive ideals it doth ponder. At the beginning of the month, or in the ides, at the top of the tides, or the bottom of the crashing waves, this mind won’t stop until it has saved… well, everything from the large bulk of knowledge, the flecks it has shaven, some ideas craven, as they seek to engrave them on their very souls, and for what? Well, so few know. Maybe there is no true end to strife, and life is met by an equally glum, and unfortuitous afterlife, or maybe it is like the aged midwife, completely done, and out of true love, only the thing that meets others which have much more optimism shining from The Realms above.

Is it a single Deity, or many? Maybe it is none, and for thinking of these Cosmic Players, this one is a ninny. Is there a Cosmic Nanny, getting off their fanny to whip us into shape, or if we rip things out of place, do they make with a mad race, to put things back into good grace? Maybe it is nothing, yet everything which we all believe? Who knows, it could just be some simple guy, a sickle, and steed his only companions, awaiting to toss our souls into The Grand Canyon of Soul Wells, and let the deceased sort themselves out, without any malice,, direction, or clout. Maybe there are too many worlds for any one reality to be The One, and maybe the highest numbers we count, have only just begun to take a dent out of the tales spun of the finest of silks, the Magna Carta of all things that be.

 

What if what we call a Galaxy, to another, is a whole Universe? Or if there are a billion or more Earths? How high can we count, before we have to step down, and simply have a pout at our infinitesimal, infantile musings?  How much of what The Muses brought to the minds of long times past were simply the flitty beings having a blast, talking gibberish, and the gullible asshats simply believed, wasting their lives as if with ease, to solve the wild goose hunt to end them all. Boy, I bet the interdimensional twats would truly have a ball, watching the unknowing idiots bat these ideas about, claiming to know, when the answer is simply a firm NO. What if we never can know, and thus, our minds will go when we seek, because there is nothing to gain for gold panning so meek? A trillion years, an Eon, a week? How long must these geeks seek?

What is the purpose, the one, juiciest answer, to which all things must defer? How far do the perceptions, from the realities differ? Maybe everyone is both right, and wrong. We have our galaxies, comprised of dozens of solar systems, and billions of galaxies in a space neighborhood, all gathered together like neatly stacked firewood. Then, we have our Universe, made of these smaller, and smaller clusters, but those incomprehensibly larger conglomerations also must cluster, on to The Multiverses, making a grander still collection of guesses.

Then, we have The Omniverse, that thing which combines them all, infinitely more infinite than our perception of infinite, but still limited, somehow, because nothing is forever, and all forces must, in turn, bow to something, if even it is their own, gargantuanly impossible weight. The forces of the ever expanding are very slow, to make the grandest of understatements, and yet, they flicker away in the space it took to conceive this final statement: Waste not, want not, or you’ll regret it. Just enjoy your life, because you’ll never REALLY get it…..

Yet this does not eschew the questions, nor will anything else. No, no, they’re there, like that one desirable item upon the top shelf, ever being reached for by the midget with no tall friends to call for help. How can the shortest of arms reach for eternity, after all?

 

 


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