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Useless Life

by ArwenOfAstora

I often think about how life is such a waste… a wealth of experience that culminates to nothing. Every day is intended to bring grandeur to the next or a day in the far future, and how useless it all feels… There are things I desire, some burn with feverish intensity… but then it all feels useless, as though its achievement is nothing more than a formality of life. What use is experience if it is unbearable, endless and ultimately unproductive? I could throw it all away, everything I’ve worked for… but then what is achieved? I could fulfill the purpose I’ve initiated, but when all is done and I’ve gained what I desire, what then? What have I really done but fooled around in vain fancy, a slave to the caprice of fantasy? Every day is truly a struggle, an inexorable combat with the oppressive weight of life’s dull uselessness. I don’t want to die, but what is the use in existing? Piggishness is the impetus of man, to consume in gluttony so that one may consume in even greater quantities… and it is all so mundane and worthless. Sorrowful is the sentient thing, for it can know how paltry it truly is.

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