L'absent
À ma manière 🪦
- Aug 18, 2024
- 1,105
Existence is the cruelest of paradoxes: an insignificant spark in the belly of a universe that never asked to exist. We are fragments of sentient dust, chained to a cycle of senseless suffering, born to decay, destined for eternal oblivion. Every breath is an insult, a futile act against the pure perfection of emptiness. Living is nothing more than prolonging a sentence inflicted by no one, for no reason.
Death is not the end, because nothing ever truly began. It is merely a return to the nothingness from which we were vomited. Nonexistence is the only natural state, and existence is an aberrant interference, an error that corrects itself with silence. Every step toward death is liberation, not because life is painful, but because it is utterly meaningless. Pain or joy, hope or despair—everything is equally irrelevant in the face of eternal absence.
Every moment lived is an affront to the logic of nothingness, a senseless rebellion against the only absolute reality: that nothing matters, nothing is real, nothing will ever endure. Life is a disease, an anomaly that manifests only to consume itself. Every thought, every emotion, every desire is but a spark from a brain destined to extinguish itself, leaving behind not memory, but an absolute silence deeper and vaster than anything we can imagine.
Suicide is neither an act of courage nor an escape but a necessary correction. It is the ultimate acknowledgment that existence has no right to be. It is an act that celebrates nothingness, the only perfect state. Life, on the other hand, is an intruder, a deformity that screams its senselessness in every moment of pain, in every unmet need, in every bond that inevitably breaks.
The universe itself is an abyss without consciousness, without intention, without purpose. Every burning star, every expanding galaxy, every consuming planet is just a step toward the inevitable: dissipated heat, scattered matter, final oblivion. Life is less than a discordant note in this symphony of nothingness; it is a noise that fades before it is even heard. And what we call humanity is nothing but a ridiculous accident, a cruel game of matter, dancing briefly before dissolving into the void.
The future is irrelevant, the past is forgotten, and the present is nothing but a flash of pain in the vastness of senselessness. No one will remember. No one will know. Nothing will ever have mattered. In a thousand years, our world will be dust. In a billion years, the Earth will be devoured by the Sun. In a trillion years, there will be no stars, no galaxies, no light. And all of this will be as if it had never happened.
So why hesitate? Why prolong this obscene performance? There is no escape from the realization that everything that exists is already dead. There is no solace, no redemption, no hope. Only the eternal return to nothingness, the only perfection possible in a universe that never wanted us.