I am broken. Or perhaps it is others that are broken, and I am whole. Perhaps we are all whole, and see reality differently. Maybe it's all shit, and we are nothing. Just highly evolved apes, clinging for dear life to a rock floating through space, and that rock itself is slowly dying.
Everything dies. That's pretty much a fact. If you don't die early, than you suffer onward through old age until it comes. Or maybe you keep living after death, a bastardised version of what you once were. Maybe it's all part of the joke.
What joke you ask? Why the only one that matters. It is the Cosmic Joke. The thing they call the Grand Game of Gods and Men, a whole farce in and of itself. Except a farce is meant to be funny, and I haven't laughed once.
What is there to laugh at? The pointless pandemic of life, shifting through the winds of change? The suffering of others? The idiots that roam the stage of life, unable to remember their lines? It's old, like an overused 'knock-knock' joke that your grandparents tell.
But once you're their age, maybe you realise the way they see things. Maybe you’ll begin to see the point. As you drift away from the mortal coil, ready for the shining brilliance of heaven or the raw flames of hell, you’ll realise something.
As the darkness overwhelms you, it will strike. Something only described as true fear. It’s the reason why we huddle together in the bleakest nights and greyest days; the reason why we make up civilisations, pretending we are supreme; the reason why we scream out loud, hoping someone, something will hear. It’s because in the end, it is nothing; it is quiet. Every road leads to the nothing, and the quiet. We all fear the nothing. We fear the quiet.
And in the end, there is one truth among that nothing.
The Quiet consumes us all.