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  • Paul D. Wilke

Lost in the Random-More


Life is always, somewhere, somehow, clinging, striving, thriving, dying, emerging again. Consciousness is too, but so much more rare, like a pearl, an eloquent fluke of nature awake to ponder itself for a moment before returning to dust. We, alas, are not eternal. We live and die, a craving, reflecting manifestation of a universe packed into slowly rotting flesh and unable to see beyond the horizons of our physical limitations, but trying nonetheless. Always trying. Such is our heroism, our tragedy, and our fate. Soon this You will be another You, and then another, but not the same You, never the same You, but another; forever and ever it will go, with no rhyme, or reason, or meaning, or happily ever after, just more of the Random-More, life after life after life, the same but always different. Remembering everything, having an awareness of all that came before and the endless repetition yet to come would be a burden too great to bear. Knowledge here is damnation. Ignorance is mercy. Wisdom is acceptance. These loves and lives we deem everlasting are merely fragile bubbles of wispy meaning. No heaven. No hell. No karma even. Pop! Just an endless cycle of deep time erasing our time, one more time, for all time. Remember that and then forget it. Cling tightly to your fictions, those gifts from the gods of your imagination. Bask in your ignorance! Pretend it's otherwise, by all means, I intend no harm with my gospel of the Random-More. Laugh away my ridiculous ramblings, if you will, and maybe best that you do. What do I know, after all, nobody that I am? I'm not your guru, nothing but a damn fool in a world full of them. In the meantime, eat and drink and love and make love and play and laugh, always laugh; amor fati and all that crap, then choose and choose again until you can't choose anymore because it will all be over soon enough. This time, anyway.


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