Will I ever be human again? I long to be human, like before. Is this merely a phase? A transition? An inevitable component of our development? First, we are innocent children. Then, the competitive cruel nature of the world desecrates us, but we cling to bonds with others in an attempt to shelter that innocence, to prevent the degradation of our souls. Up to that point, it is still a beautiful process, romantic even, despite its tragedy. It’s only in the next stage that true grotesque sets in. During that stage, there is a release from our very being.
The fortresses we built crumble away. A Machiavellian perspective of reality sinks its venomous fangs into the back of our minds, sometimes sugarcoated by our well-meaning delusions and denial. The hope we harbored rots with each passing moment that our desires remain unfulfilled. In those that see hope, we see something unfair, something that we felt we deserved but weren’t entitled to savor. Why should they deserve freedom from the confines of a broken mind?
Unfairness breeds our desire for justice, which breeds cruelty and punishment. Those with hope are to be torn down, put in their place. Clinging to hope, one becomes aware that the distribution of hope is unfair. We cannot trust the hopeless because they will wish to drag us into their abyss.
At least, hopelessness is comforting. It is acceptance. Hope is accompanied by unending anguish from realizing what could have been. What could always be but never is. Really, noxious hopelessness is the faint ghost of hope that one clings to in their dreams. Intertwined with regret and self-fulfilling prophecies stemming from a Möbius strip imbued with action-sequences, a repeating barrage of our predictions, choices, and outcomes that feed back into themselves, creating the future from the past. A future engineered by our regrets. A future that merely mirrors what should be dead: our most humbled selves. Yet our arrogance clings to the delusions of our clairvoyance. We remain in the endless now, in an infinite loop directed by our fears of the future and of loss.
Repeating experiences are like food and drugs, every dose, every taste is more anesthetized than the last. Every iteration less meaningful than the prior, in the decay of novelty. The endless now provides us a numb existence and safety, somewhere to hide. The shelter we sought in others has been replaced by our existence of habit. A new fortress takes hold in our mind. Simulations of an idealized past, permeating our present moments with glimmering nostalgia. A stinging craving for innocence lingers.
Our crystal-gazing bleeds into those around us; it’s infectious. Each consumer of the meme amplifies our speculation, telling us that the unseen future is growingly certain, that it has been seen. The certainty becomes a factor for our choices and our choices create the future. Once we finally meet our yet to be born selves, it ensures us that we were right all along. We evaporate the innocence of our future selves because the metamorphosis from hope to hopeless hurts more than being forever broken. Our spirits annihilate themselves because we fear life. We’d rather play dead.
In order to attain true fairness, echoes of a zeitgeist entrances generations with mindless hopelessness. The black pill… encouraging the countless numbers to join the ranks of an army of the living dead.
Choose hope, yo.
I hope this was interesting or useful so that I can convince myself that life has more meaning.
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Fav arts from my psy-fi story are shown below, as lures and eye-candy.
qwerky science 