What’s the point? Why should I keep trying? By perpetuating the futility with every single one of my actions, I'm only feeding the absurd. My life is nothing but a fucking joke. And I'm getting tired of being the universe's source of entertainment. I can hear the cosmic laugh every time I try to grasp something that is out of my reach. A struggle to satisfy a need created by social constructs. Nonetheless, a real one.
My words bound me to the signifiers that I've created or adopted, they limit my existence and everything that isn't. Abstractions that has little or nothing to do with what we call real. But it's only a matter of time before everything turns to ashes or rots beneath the ground. Until then, suffering it's guaranteed as an inherent trait of this miserable joke that is my existence. I have no tears to share, all I can do is laugh and wait for my inevitable death.
By J. Reed
