The Illusion of Something

Imagine a society—a realm where those who have not found a purpose in life endure profound suffering. From this suffering emerges a purpose, and with it, a so-called free will that marches in its name. The spoken words are later romanticized and committed to record, proclaiming a purpose that, though deemed immutable, shifts and evolves with each utterance. It is a culture that enfolds all, yet its consequence is to regard those, reduced to worm-like beings, with slavish disdain—a tithe extracted from bowed necks that nourishes the very purpose forged, a void chasing those too fearful to face the outcome of existence.

There are those who lie merely to echo the prevailing views of the multitude; those who, when the pressure mounts, retreat into the purpose they have fashioned—bending and twisting it to guide their way. Observe the ostentatious avenues of thieves who, to mask their hunched visages, pilfer the fruits of society’s labor; those who, terrified of thoughts breaking free, yearn for the bliss of collective ignorance; and the base toxins mingled in the spittle hurled from podiums, each drop a testament to decay.

A system asserts that anyone may don the guise of a clown—hopes painted onto faces and eyes, only to vanish with each cycle. The fools, gripped by a dread of the cold bed, risk everything to preserve the warmth of their bodies; the monkey dances performed before mirrors in their midst; the hostile stances taken against those who stray from the common lane on a busy street; the familiar privileges reserved for reflections that mirror one’s own; and the smiles on ape-like visages emerging as spoken falsehoods fade into oblivion.

Consider yourself—your actions, manipulated without intent. When night falls and eyes close, notice how the genuine thoughts behind the whisper of your inner voice gradually yield to a monotonous uniformity. Rediscover the yearning to know those truths once feared; recall the dizzying moment of first recognizing your errors; feel the trembling distraction emanating from the object clutched in your hand. Contemplate all that bars you from true thought—simply think, for it is precisely our failure to think that has rendered us as we are.