On Necessity and Horror

I. On the Self

We mistake the complexity of our thoughts for freedom, like a river believing it has chosen its path to the sea.

Deliberation is the sound the gears make.

Choice is theater.

The self is not the author, nor even the character. It is the conscious tremor in the puppet’s string, and the tremor, too, was written in the wood. Freedom is the name we give our splinters.

II. On the Cosmos

The universe has no author. It is an argument that proves itself.

We search the heavens for a story and find only a crystal growing in a void. We are merely the transient, intricate flaws within its necessary structure.

Nothing is a logical impossibility. The universe is the simplest answer to an unasked question. Consciousness was inevitable; horror followed.

III. On Connection

Empathy is a mirror that mistakes its own reflection for a window.

We call our shared terrors “love,” and find in this mutual diagnosis a temporary cure.

Our bonds are not chosen. We are planets caught in each other’s gravity, mistaking the slow orbital decay for a lasting embrace.

IV. On Living

Hope is not a virtue. It is simply a more efficient fuel for the machine than despair.

Existence is the management of one’s own anesthesia.

The addict is every man.

Do not ask if your comfort is true, only if it is sustainable. The only sin is to choose a tool that robs you of your ability to acquire more. This is not morality; it is the pragmatism of the addict.