Just like the old stork story we’ve all experienced at one point or another, we have all just been plopped onto this planet, at random times, places, and to different people... at random? Here I am, the world is 6.7 billion years old. The plights I experience are just the recycled experiences of everyone who has passed before me. My revelations are probably comparable or even inferior to that of those before me. Nothing is new. And yet everything seems so... dreadful. It’s the end of the world each day I wake up. There’s always a new and pressing matter, inspired by a random selection of events. But how can this be? Surely it should be understood that our time here is limited... no matter who put us here, if anyone at all, or for what purpose, doesn’t exactly matter. There’s no rule book to the game of life. No one can tell you that they know the answer to life’s secrets. If humans have been here for such a long period of time, shouldn’t someone have found the answer by now?
But no one has. Shouldn’t that tell us something? There is no order; this world is based on the chaos of spontaneity. Our lives spawn from the very essence of this. No, life is not fair, because we have been deposited into random situations, like test mice, with time as our great Being who watches over all and records different stimuli and their reactions. The only thing similar between us is our biology. But it’s what we do with it that matters. Why fall into the rat race? Why live the way everyone tells you to? Why blindly trust the actions and orders of others, and have our lives enveloped in someone else’s dream?
