We live in an accidental Universe, devoid of purpose, without rhyme, reason, or design.
The human condition is absurd. Condemned to be free, we flail about, fruitlessly trying to make our lives meaningful in what is an essentially meaningless existence.
Every instant, like Sisyphus, we roll the rock upwards, only to have it roll back down again, our feeble aspirations squashed like a bug, our lives rendered empty by the emptiness of it all.
We’re born, we live, we die, alone at the beginning and at the end, our so-called “accomplishments” as futile as the whole human experience, ultimately nothing more than a random collection of atoms randomly arranging themselves amidst the vastness of time and space.
Party on.
What else are you going to do, really?
May as well ingest mind-altering chocolates and tell shaggy dog story jokes that are so unfunny that you cackle with laughter at the delightful stupidity of it all.
May as well climb hills on your bike you don’t need to and marvel at the vista while drinking whiskey from a paper bag.
May as well go up to go down and down to go up and circle around underneath to arrive on top of the scary bridge that isn’t so scary at all when you’re in a pack of cyclists cycling behind balloons whose reason for being only emerges in context of the moment.
May as well visit a closed zoo and realize, naturally, that the strangest animals of all are on the outside looking in.
May as well take over a bar and cram yourself into one tiny table and then another, interior or exterior, what’s the difference?
May as well order another pitcher of beer and another and one more after that. And oh, may as well finish that mind-altering chocolate.
May as well make plans for more but decide to head home since nothing matters anyway.
May as well.
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