Life is futile. A senseless waste. We live, we die. That is it.
We squeeze out meaning. Or inject it into our veins. We run, but we know not for what, and then expire. We build our castles and pile up things. Then we die.
The sun rises and sets or spins and spins. Seasons come, seasons go. We grow old. We die. The same remains until the sun burns out and we grow cold.
All is futile.
There is no meaning, accept what we make. So fill your coffer, kill the pain. Feed your pleasure, though a monster it becomes.
Thus is life if there’s no hope beyond the grave.
Yet, if this is the sleepy land and we wait for what is true life then this is but the testing ground. We plant what grows for us there. If we make our meaning here, then we destroy it there. If we are lethargic and vague in pursuit then we’ll obtain the wind.