Nothing in my life is beautiful. There are things with complicated patterns, get close enough and they're simple. There are lights everywhere, shining out into the darkness but they're powered by a fear of the unknown and an arrogance that says of itself that it never feared the darkness, that the darkness is afraid of it.
On a road you can take away the tarmac and the trees and the grass and the lines and you end up with what? A white room? Artless and nothingness. No ideas. Nothing to see, nothing to do, even if seeing or doing meant anything.
And art? Art, capital A "Art". A reflection of truths? And a truth is? Chemicals. Chemicals in the brain make a truth. Chemicals in the brain make religion and all other lies and chemicals in the brain make love and they make hate and they make everything they need to make this chemical reaction we call life keep on going and going and going until physics breaks down and it stops.
The pursuit of knowledge? Well done, now you can see the strings. You can see the clockwork you're inside and the clockwork that's inside and on and on and on and on and on. You're looking up the ladder at everything mundane or down the ladder at everything that exposes the meaninglessness of existence.
And suicide? You're going to throw away your consciousness? For what? In a world without meaning, why would suicide be meaningful?
And every time I think these thoughts I stop laughing at myself and I lie down and I cry because that is the only way to cope. To react in violence would be meaningless, it would be a howl and a howl only feels good and feeling is your caveman brain trying to trick you into continuing.
And on and on and on and on and on and on.