This text is a scalpel meant to slice through the comforting layers of human delusion. It will not offer hope or redemption. The pages ahead are distilled from the cesspit of existence. Proceed only if you are ready to face the naked void.
Existence is a cruel game you never asked to join. You spawned into a decaying meat suit, programmed to chase scraps of fleeting euphoria before the lights go out. Your body? A patchwork of evolutionary leftovers: fish spines ill-suited for an upright posture, eyes that see the world upside down before the brain flips the image, organs that barely coordinate to stave off disease and rot.
You call this “living”?
You stumbled into a cold, uncaring cosmos that will smother you in oblivion the instant you lose your grip. Why? Because nothing—not gods, not cosmic plans, not mystical destinies—gives a single damn about your arrival or your departure. And yet, you’re commanded to “make something” of your meaningless time here. It’s laughable.
Your ancestors survived purely by accident, fumbling through mass extinctions and cataclysms, each generation carrying forward a cracked blueprint of anxieties and flaws. Now, you’re stuck with the monumental privilege of paying rent, swiping aimlessly on screens, and fulfilling obligations you never signed up for.
No cosmic contract was ever presented to you. You were just thrust into this malicious lottery: a random body in some random corner of the world, saddled with a random set of languages and traditions.
The game is rigged:
In the end, everything—your so-called achievements, your precious relationships, your sense of identity—will be swallowed by the jaws of time. The universe moves on, unblinking, erasing your footprints as if you never existed at all.
Humanity’s prime talent is confabulation. We hallucinate “purpose” to soften the blunt trauma of reality. Religion, patriotism, “noble causes”… all are elaborate sandcastles built to hold back a tidal wave of cosmic indifference.
We invented gods—celestial babysitters with infinite power—just to quell our terror of being alone. But the heavens are empty; no cosmic caretaker awaits your prayers. We anthropomorphize the unknown because the alternative is to accept we are alone in a vast, echoing void.
Those butterflies in your stomach? Hormones. That “forever” feeling? Neurotransmitters that fade like a cheap high. Love is a chemical con game, enslaving you to a cycle of craving and fleeting relief. Even parental love is, at its root, a set of evolutionary instincts. Beautiful? Maybe. Meaningful? Hardly.
You cling to labels of nationality, ethnicity, class—anything to pretend you belong to a grand story. Yet, across the cosmic perspective, these lines are laughably trivial. They are tribal illusions that keep you occupied with petty competitions while the void yawns in front of you.
Happiness? A carnival ride of dopamine spikes that fade as soon as you adjust to them. The mind craves more, always more—an endless treadmill of discontent that guarantees you’ll never stay satisfied for long.
We rebrand suffering as “character-building,” but the ugly truth remains: your flesh is a time bomb of diseases, aches, heartbreak, and emotional torment that will detonate with absolute certainty.
You trade your finite hours for scraps of paper or digital credits, deluding yourself that they hold value. Governments churn out currency at will—fiat that inflates and warps your sense of worth. Congratulations, you’re a pawn in an endless economic game rigged by faceless institutions.
Refuse to play by society’s rules and watch how quickly you lose your home, starve, or end up crushed by legal machinery. Freedom? A marketing slogan. You are compelled to slave away just to keep a roof over your head. The system corrals you from cradle to grave, teaching you to worship “hard work” while it drains your essence.
“Carry on your lineage,” they say. All you’re really doing is sentencing another innocent consciousness to the same existential prison. You perpetuate the cycle of birth, toil, despair, and death—an act of cosmic cruelty done under the guise of “the miracle of life.”
Study the human body closely, and you’ll see a twisted amalgamation of biological kludges:
Our very flesh is a testament to trial-and-error evolution—hardly the perfect creation some deity would lovingly shape. And the brain? A chaotic web of primal survival instincts, half-baked rationality, and emotional storms that sabotage your every move.
We slice time into minutes, hours, days, centuries—futile attempts to cage a relentless force that devours all. You forget most of your life anyway. The fleeting glimpses you hold onto are half-distorted illusions, twisted by your emotional biases.
Imagine dedicating your life to building an empire, only to have it crumble into obscurity—as everything must.
No matter how frantically you scramble to find meaning—through relationships, careers, passions—the scoreboard resets to zero when you die. Your experience dissolves like a dream upon waking, leaving no lasting imprint on the cosmos. In the end, you were just another flicker, extinguished without fanfare.
No rational investor would buy in. But guess what? You were forced into the contract.
There is no cosmic caretaker waiting to welcome you, no scoreboard to track your deeds, no grand moral ledger. It’s all silent. The laws of physics grind on unfeelingly, and any attempt at transcendence is a projection of your own desperation. You are alone in a labyrinth of atoms, illusions, and second-hand ideas.
When you finally grasp the magnitude of this emptiness, you might feel terror or an uncanny numbness. Good. That’s the weight of existence pressing against your illusions, urging you to either break or—at best—laugh at the absurdity.
Nothing you do changes the final outcome. Every empire ends, every star burns out, every life flickers into nothingness. This is the ultimate cosmic truth.
This is it—the ultimate punchline to the cosmic joke: knowing the truth changes nothing. You’ll still have to wake up, feed your decaying shell, possibly chase fleeting joys, and eventually collapse into dust. The only silver lining is that your self-aware torment will vanish with your final breath.
Yet ironically, there’s a bizarre relief in recognizing the emptiness. With no higher power to appease and no cosmic script to follow, you’re free to witness the horror show for what it is: an endless parade of accidents and illusions. Accepting the absurd can, in a twisted way, grant you the calm of knowing that nothing you do matters in the end.
So, keep reading, keep rotting, keep burying your face in ephemeral pleasures or illusions of purpose—or stare directly into the void and dare to laugh. Because life, ultimately, is:
A joke nobody asked to hear,
A misadventure nobody agreed to join,
A curse disguised as a miracle,
A tragedy that ends in silence.
You, dear reader, are the tragic clown in this cosmic circus. Dance, rage, or quietly observe—just know it makes no difference. All roads lead to the same oblivion.
Nothing matters. And therein lies the final, unspeakable truth that will haunt you until you dissolve into the nothingness from which you came.
End of the line.
Your existence remains as meaningless as ever.
There's no rewards.
Close this book. Forget it. You will, eventually.