Standing on the dark highway at night, I feel like roadkill staring into the oblivion of life's headlights — the visceral sound of brakes too late. I search beyond for signs of hope but the only thing I see is myself staring back. There's nothing there but black, not even that. Life's always been peculiar.
Last night I dreamt I died. I stood on oblivion's precipice, to watch the world float by and wait my end. There at the end of my discourse, I died but did not know it, and in the instance of my death eternity departed. Beyond the realm of life's snowdome, who'll bear witness as the snow is shaken, the dome is broken and we're swallowed by the Sun? How it all seems somewhat small whom and what we were, for now and evermore — we're not to be at all.
In the beginning there was nothing, then from darkness came the light. All I know is, on the day before I was born the world did not exist and then suddenly here I was wondering: what is all this? Now a lifetime later, I still ask myself the same question, while everybody else lives more troubled by the moment than by oblivion. There's not really an alternative, for all we have is this moment below a sword that soon falls through you.
For millennia we manufactured gods, if only we invested the same in each other but that is not our nature. Where once there was God, now all we have is one another but no brotherhood. We tried the socialist experiment but that fails our test. Perhaps in AI we'll find God anew but as for hope, I do not know. In the meantime, we live as best we can until oblivion.
