There Is No Fixing This: Chapter 8
Before the End IV
We lean. Always falling back into something. Ourselves, someone else, something else. Never once stopping to notice that the net below doesn’t provide safety, but oblivion.
Thousands of minute systems, each built as a failsafe for the preceding. Placed precariously like dominoes, waiting to fall, needing to fall.
Surely there is something more. Something bigger. Too big to fail, never meant to win.
Progress is the lie we have told ourselves. Was it necessary? Do the birds flying overhead feel the need to live forever? An infinitude that leads to nowhere but grasped at all the same?
We are animals. Creatures of habit with a false sense of uniqueness. Feeling special because we’re different. The ability to bend things to your will isn’t a sign of strength, a sign of growth and prosperity. It stands as mere desperation.
Longevity added. Immortality wished and strived for, but never attained. Forever is but a mote on the wind of the eternal.
A fluke, an aberration, self-aware to a destructive degree.
Why did we ever have to be special? Why did we ever have to have more than this or that?
Just because you can do whatever you want doesn’t mean you should, and we could do so, so much.
And what would we get, could forever be attained? The explosion and death of the sun, the destruction of the planet in its turn. The impending heat death of the universe.
Forever was a golden ring with no endgame. Living on in perpetuity just to say that we did.
It all crumbled so incredibly fast.