This is what we do to ourselves


In the end, as human beings, this is what we do. It’s madness, folly and ultimately, in undeniably sensible circles, potentially meaningless. Does the meaningless drive us mad? If one of us is crazy, aren’t we all? The fact that it is in us to completely disavow ourselves from any identifiable features (human speech, our brain being centered on other members of our species, the ability to communicate, more or less. effectively [*grunts, dog gets beer is perfectly acceptable in this case] and the connection with another human being.

That seems to be all we can hope to live for. If we are part of a vast insanity where nothing matters, and we’re all just talking to some ticker tape version of our past (click, click, click every mistake accounted for) colliding with our survival instincts of the present [how I talk to the 7-11 guy] and our mental cuing of objects and items and sounds and mirages of memories all crumpled up on our link to ourselves in a cacophony of space. This is how I feel about our ability to land on a comet and the fact that we actually did so this week.

Until next time.

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