Orpheus, where are you?

Dante had a hell. Joyce had a hell. Conrad had a hell. All of the greatest writers have witnessed my hell. When you're stuck in a bottomless pit of despair, what have you to do but describe it to the rest of the world?

Doesn't anyone get it? Doesn't anyone see that the horror of living comes from the knowledge that life not only has no point, but also continually taunts us with the knowledge that it soon must end? It's like someone's teasing us. It's like someone's dangling dreams and ambitions in front of us like a carrot in front of a ravenous horse, and we have no means by which to devour our hopes. We haven't the capacity to acquire satisfaction because we're attempting to succeed in an impossible endeavor. We have thinkers, mechanics, engineers, and artists, and still no one can come up with a believable explanation or representation of our ultimate purpose for existing on this earth. No one can express or create in a way that achieves even part of what we all long to know: What's it all for?

The explanation requires a perfection which is essentially unattainable. There will always be a way to make things better. There will always be a way to do something else, to change something, to create something, but there is never a perfect end until death. Death is the only concept of life which can be absolutely understood. It boggles my mind how so many people have lived on this earth believing that the only thing they could never understand was death. Death is the one thing I do understand. Death is perfection. Death is tranquility. Death is the only way to unite ourselves with the purpose of this universe. Death is the answer. Death makes sense.

If you really understand death, you won't be afraid of it. If you really understand it, you won't take things for granted. You will never wish you had treated someone differently. You will never have any regrets. If you truly understand death, your sole purpose in life becomes to make the most of what you have while you have it. We've all heard the saying: "You don't know what you have until it's gone," but you only don't know what you have until it's gone, if you didn't appreciate it enough to begin with. Make the most of things. Appreciate them for what they're worth. A lot of things aren't worth any time or effort, or even a second thought, but some things are.

It turns out that my mission through all of this seems to have become to treat my friends and family with the respect and love that they deserve. I never take someone I appreciate for granted. I pretend to love life and all its "charms" so as to ensure the happiness of those around me. I feel like I have to make the pain of their lives as bearable as possible. It's like I'm trying to comfort a sick grandparent. I keep fluffing pillows and spoon-feeding people their daily dose of feel-good chicken soup, but deep down inside, I know they're dying and there's nothing I can do. If only people were aware of their circumstance, perhaps it wouldn't be so hard for me to tolerate their endless state of oblivion. If people weren't so content with their simple minds and their simple lives, perhaps I would be more able to deal with them without constantly having to recognize and tolerate their ignorance. Perhaps then I would be able to escape from the atrocities which constitute the boundaries of your world and the confines of my hell.