The Bliss of the Absurd
It's come to my attention lately that we are enchained by the labels of what we call reality. The area of study that has been instrumental in my theories of chaos is "string theory," the theory that all matter is eternal outward and inward, infinitely and infinitesmally. Check out the wikipedia about string theory, or check out http://www.msnbc.com/news/201650.asp?cp1=1. Basically, all matter is composed of things called super-strings, little pieces of matter a about one billion billion times smaller than a proton, far too small for silly human machinery to detect.
Tyler is in the process of recovering from a broken heart. I've been literally shattered this past few weeks due to the demise of a relationship that was quite lovely for quite some time. In the midst of this, I've discovered this theory. All matter, whether it be animal fecal matter or human eyeballs or refined plutonium, is composed of the same fundamental elements, and all of those elemental strings are only different because they are situated at different frequencies and vibrations. Initially this discovery, coincidentally with the break-up, created within me an existentialist. I was Sartre or Hegel for an entire day. At work, as a Customer Service Manager mind you, I spoke at length to customers and subordinate employees and co-equal middle management retards about the reality of our impending doom, about death stalking us at every meander of life. Whenever any problems arose, I would reply, "Does it really matter?" And it didn't. For an entire day it DID NOT matter. Customers were frightened. Associates, already acknowledging me as a fount of absurdity, were less startled but still concerned for my sanity. One associate even advised another, "Don't talk to Tyler today. He'll just talk about death." That really happened. The way I was thinking, if I am the same as everything else, nothing is really real, and imminent death makes life laughable and absurd.
But now, after a few days to reason out my personal philosophies concerning the discovery, I have decided that I *am* the same as everything else, nothing really is real, and imminent death indeed makes life laughable and absurd: how beautiful! If we're all going to die anyway, we may as well love ourselves, we may as well love life, we may as well love every person we meet. All we really have are these moments we perceive. Therefore, it is our duty to our own souls to treat every moment as if it is the most sacred moment we've ever had the opportunity to experience. It is our duty to treat every stranger as if they are the most sacred person we've ever encountered. And while it is true that everything is chaos, that we are composed of infinitesmal vibrating strings, and that there is nothing we are going to do to escape eventual death, it is also true that this specific coagulated mass of vibrating strings known by some as my hand, has been given its very own serving of divine energy, and has been given the divine mandate to manipulate the tiny strings around it into aesthetic splendour.
Note: My roommate just read my rant and called it "new agey." EFF THAT! It is not.