The Syph of Mythesus or: Eh?
What does my life mean? Obviously this is a question I have dwelt upon. Everything is pointless. But some things are more pointless than others. (Is that distinction deep or shallow? Is plus 1 really so different or better than minus 1?)
I imagine a web suspended in space. Above and below is an infinity of meaninglessness. But tentatively supporting my weight is this tenuous gossamer thread. An ectoplasm of justness. I touch the smooth fossilised footprint of a long extinct dinosaur. My hand examines the impression: void and feature. The differences and similarities to my own hand (to the impression I would have made) are informing this encounter with, not only the object, but also with all beings and all of reality. A creature once stood here. It lived. It breathed. It died. And now there are no more. It. Its mates. Its offspring. There is continuity there. From …
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