You can scream it. You can write it. You can whisper it to yourself in the middle of the night when the world around you is still, and it will still ring hollow. Why? Because it's true. Every word. Every thought. Every idea you've ever had. It doesn't mean a damn thing.
The sun rises and sets. Every day. For millions of years, it's risen. For millions more, it will set. And none of it matters. It doesn't rise to warm you, or because some celestial being decided it's time to get up and give you a fresh start. It rises because the Earth spins on its axis, a mindless rotation, like a clock that doesn't care whether you wake up or not. It's been doing it for billions of years, and it will keep doing it long after you're gone. It doesn't care about you or your precious plans or dreams. It's not some great giver of light. It's just a burning ball of gas, burning itself out over eons. Just like you. Just like me.
We move through this life, chasing the illusion of meaning. Work, money, status, love. We fight, we cry, we strive. And all for what? So we can feel like we're part of something bigger? Please. The only thing bigger than us is the emptiness that surrounds us. The void. And we're just small pieces of dust, floating through it, trying to make sense of the chaos. Trying to attach some meaning to our fleeting existence.
The seasons change. Fall to winter. Spring to summer. And we marvel at it. We say, "Oh, how beautiful!" But in reality, it's just another cycle. Another cycle of life decaying, things dying, only to be reborn for a moment before they die again. The leaves turn from green to gold, then to brown, crumbling and falling to the ground, forgotten by time. And that's it. That's all we are—leaves. We grow, we change, we fall, we decay.
Think about how many people have been born until now. How many have died? How many are buried under the ground beneath us, slowly decaying into dust? How many of them will never be remembered, their names lost to the wind, their bodies lost to the dirt? Thousands, millions, billions of lives lived and then extinguished. And when they're gone, where do they go? Does it even matter? No. The Earth doesn't care about them. It doesn't care about you or me. We come. We go. And in the end, we are all the same: dust in the wind.
The Earth is spinning, turning, and it doesn't stop. It doesn't care. The stars burn, burn, burn, until they burn out and collapse into nothing. It's beautiful in a way, isn't it? How everything just fades away, how the stars eventually extinguish, how the Earth will one day be consumed by fire, how the sun will eventually burn out, and the whole damn universe will collapse into a cold, empty nothing. And we're just passing through, pretending like we matter. But we don't. None of it matters.
We sit here, trapped in this cosmic joke, thinking that somehow we're different. That we're special. We're not. We're just another speck of dust floating on a rock that's spinning aimlessly through the universe. Nothing we do, nothing we say, nothing we believe—none of it will leave a mark. The Earth will decay. The oceans will boil. The stars will flicker out. And all of us, all of our hopes, our dreams, our petty little problems—gone. Forgotten. Like a bad dream you wake up from and can't remember a minute later.
But don't worry, we've got plenty of time before that happens. Plenty of time to keep suffering through it all. It's not going to happen in our lifetimes, or your lifetime, or my lifetime. We've got a long, long way to go before the sun burns out and we're all swallowed by the cold, dark void. So don't worry about that. We've got more suffering ahead of us than we can even imagine. So let's just keep going, shall we? Keep trying. Keep working. Keep living. What else can we do? We can't stop the clock from ticking, and we can't make the stars burn any brighter. All we can do is ride the wave. Because what's the point of fighting it?
In the end, we're all just waiting for the day when the lights go out and the show's over. And it's beautiful, isn't it? How meaningless it all is.