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  • Writer's picturePaul 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 limits, 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 goes, 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, forever and ever amen! 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 bubbles of wispy meaning. No heaven. No hell. No Hades. No karma either. Pop! Just an endless cycle of deep time erasing our time, one more time, for all time. Think about 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, and maybe best that you do. What do I know, after all, nobody that I am? I'm not a guru, just another damn fool. In the meantime, eat and drink and love and fuck 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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