Every of our lives is but a selfish creation, out of control, driven by entropy and decay.
My life in this ocean of chaos was riddling. Nowhere to go, anywhere to turn. Neither of purpose, nor of reason, fate or destiny, promises, hope. I was a self-created lie, something lesser, anything else. Not worth a prayer, not worth the pride.
I looked up to the sun, up to the moon and wondered and wandered mindlessly, without a goal. And all I asked was, why and why and why?
So much I’ve longed for something I could only pretend never to find. I wanted more. There must have been a greater answer, a bigger truth or at least–and anything was better than nothing–a deeper lie. For heaven or hell, God or Creator, for the sake of my sanity; this life could not be just that.
Thenceforth I reached for the stars. I was determined to find, devoted to seek. I created hope where none dwelled before, for nothing could stop me from finding an answer. Such young and innocent hope, naive in its honesty, but relentless in its drive. My heart was filled and beating so strong, it was deafening. Though I resisted not, I needed to know.
Mine was the starving march through the ruins of history, the stranglehold of a choking hourglass and the unforgiving search through the sands of time. The ages of mankind behind me, I then climbed the highest mountains, battled the hissing storms and the never ending winters. I breathed the bitterness of frostbitten time itself, and stood before the gates of heaven. I devoted and gave my life to find them welded shut with ice, forsaken and forgotten, and now frozen over with lost dreams and times undone.
Then all I had left was to look down. Down to a world ready to share the same destiny, the same promise and lie.
Suddenly, though not surprisingly, I felt betrayed. Was it not hope, that now brought me to the end of hope itself? And before these ancient gates, sealed with the jealousy of a blinded war, I fell on my knees and I screamed and I cried. Here, where the Morning Sun once turned away, I found doubt where childish hope once dwelled. It was here, that rebellion became recreation. But too was it here, where hope became madness, became guilt, which now I felt with every beat of an aging heart. And a part deep within me wanted for the world to feel this very guilt, too. I was but a broken man at the end of a lost journey. Driven once by hope, filled with pride and ready now to fall.
Here, on top of it all, on the edge of the biggest abyss ever created by the divine, I started to riddle once again.
What God would create a world, in which reaching the highest of any point can only mean a certain fall?
For no answer, nor good shall ever come from where the heavens died, I had to go deeper.
So I turned to the fallen, to the twisted and wicked, all the creatures I only ever knew as wrong and misjudged. I embraced the fear, the rage, and I laughed. Laughed, until my eyes bled tears of fright, laughed with the mad and all the beautiful bleak. There we celebrated the art of agony, the moment every man, even the most hopeless, will cherish his life at last.
And like a hissing crack through an ornate mirror, the answer came so clear.