L'absent
À ma manière 🪦
- Aug 18, 2024
- 1,012
The Inevitability of the Void
Beyond the veil that conceals the true essence of existence, it is clear to me that death is not an enemy to fear, nor a conclusion to dread, but a return to a state of quietude that precedes and will follow all things. There is nothing in it that unsettles me, nothing that disturbs me. Death is not a foe to be fought, nor an impending catastrophe to escape. It is not a negation, nor a cessation to struggle against, but rather the natural completion of a cycle that, like all cycles, is destined to end without any claim to revelation or resolution.
Yet, when I observe life, its very existence appears, as paradoxical as it may sound, an absurdity of cosmic proportions. I do not view it as tragic, nor dramatic, nor in any way a source of suffering. I see it rather as a dancer moving without rhythm, aimless in its unfolding, like a sequence of biological, chemical, and physical events that intertwine, dissolve, and then make way for nothingness. There is no tension in my gaze, only a silent, composed recognition of the ephemeral nature of this brief existence. Absurdity has never been a source of anguish, but of a quiet acceptance: the meaning sought in it is a deceptive construction, a mask worn to make the game more bearable.
Life is the expression of a blind and random movement, a concatenation of events that began without cause and will inevitably dissipate into the chaos of entropy. There is nothing that justifies our being, nor a design that supports us, except a combination of physical and chemical laws that govern the universe indifferently to our desire to understand. Yet, in recognizing this absurdity, I feel no regret, nor rejection. There is nothing distressing in observing our passage as a fleeting breath in the vastness, an appearance that vanishes without leaving a trace.
When death comes, there will be nothing to lose, nothing to hold onto. Life, in its fleetingness, has never possessed anything substantial, nothing worth preserving. There is no tragedy in its end, but rather a restoration of universal order, a return to the preceding condition, a cosmic equilibrium that needs no redemption, nor justification. Death is not an event that erases, but a completion that closes the circle of existence without regret.
And yet, even while understanding this, I see death not as an end, but as a return to primordial quiet, to cosmic silence. Every breath of life, every thought, every emotion, is nothing more than an evanescent shade that fades like mist under the heat of a sun that has no purpose to exist except for the brief moment it endures. Death is the final act of an existence that never needed to justify itself, that never sought any meaning, but simply existed for the time in which its being was possible. It is not the end of a journey, but the inevitable return to nothing, where every trace, every effort, every hope dissolves in an embrace that excludes nothing, that discriminates nothing.
When the moment arrives, nothing will escape me. Death, though it may appear as a conclusion, has never been anything other than the natural corollary of an existence that never sought to evade its lack of purpose. Far from the illusions of eternity, there is no fear of what is, for what is has never needed to be anything other than what it is. The void that will follow, like the void that preceded, is not a tragedy, but a primordial truth, a universal law that requires no understanding. It is the completion of a cycle that began without cause and without purpose, and that, with the same indifference, dissolves into the infinite.
Beyond the veil that conceals the true essence of existence, it is clear to me that death is not an enemy to fear, nor a conclusion to dread, but a return to a state of quietude that precedes and will follow all things. There is nothing in it that unsettles me, nothing that disturbs me. Death is not a foe to be fought, nor an impending catastrophe to escape. It is not a negation, nor a cessation to struggle against, but rather the natural completion of a cycle that, like all cycles, is destined to end without any claim to revelation or resolution.
Yet, when I observe life, its very existence appears, as paradoxical as it may sound, an absurdity of cosmic proportions. I do not view it as tragic, nor dramatic, nor in any way a source of suffering. I see it rather as a dancer moving without rhythm, aimless in its unfolding, like a sequence of biological, chemical, and physical events that intertwine, dissolve, and then make way for nothingness. There is no tension in my gaze, only a silent, composed recognition of the ephemeral nature of this brief existence. Absurdity has never been a source of anguish, but of a quiet acceptance: the meaning sought in it is a deceptive construction, a mask worn to make the game more bearable.
Life is the expression of a blind and random movement, a concatenation of events that began without cause and will inevitably dissipate into the chaos of entropy. There is nothing that justifies our being, nor a design that supports us, except a combination of physical and chemical laws that govern the universe indifferently to our desire to understand. Yet, in recognizing this absurdity, I feel no regret, nor rejection. There is nothing distressing in observing our passage as a fleeting breath in the vastness, an appearance that vanishes without leaving a trace.
When death comes, there will be nothing to lose, nothing to hold onto. Life, in its fleetingness, has never possessed anything substantial, nothing worth preserving. There is no tragedy in its end, but rather a restoration of universal order, a return to the preceding condition, a cosmic equilibrium that needs no redemption, nor justification. Death is not an event that erases, but a completion that closes the circle of existence without regret.
And yet, even while understanding this, I see death not as an end, but as a return to primordial quiet, to cosmic silence. Every breath of life, every thought, every emotion, is nothing more than an evanescent shade that fades like mist under the heat of a sun that has no purpose to exist except for the brief moment it endures. Death is the final act of an existence that never needed to justify itself, that never sought any meaning, but simply existed for the time in which its being was possible. It is not the end of a journey, but the inevitable return to nothing, where every trace, every effort, every hope dissolves in an embrace that excludes nothing, that discriminates nothing.
When the moment arrives, nothing will escape me. Death, though it may appear as a conclusion, has never been anything other than the natural corollary of an existence that never sought to evade its lack of purpose. Far from the illusions of eternity, there is no fear of what is, for what is has never needed to be anything other than what it is. The void that will follow, like the void that preceded, is not a tragedy, but a primordial truth, a universal law that requires no understanding. It is the completion of a cycle that began without cause and without purpose, and that, with the same indifference, dissolves into the infinite.
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