Chasing the storm will eventually lead to your own annihilation, even having the best times of your lives, there is no such happy redemption waiting, it is just mere human existence making the effort to make it worthwhile and the fight to overcome inadequacy, a never ending tunnel that consumes the very motive called purpose only to perpetuate an endless cycle of comfortable suffering, contemplating the fact, what is the origin of this suffering which is elusive, perhaps absurdism itself collapses under the weight of its own claim. The internal turmoil that you have to overcome every night is like cramming every thought that is not possible while nincompoops instruct you with their diatribes, guarding their precious opinions as if they were truths. Pain grows nuanced, almost merciful. No one truly cares what you care about, and that indifference feels fundamentally incomplete. As my lord says in Ecclesiastes 1:14 “I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.” why worry so much all for the cost to find your purpose, Memento mori brother, there is nothing to perceive beyond death. O’Connor and dostoevsky stood perilously close to nihilism tempted by it, saturated in it yet discovered inexhaustible meaning in Christ, i remain incapable of that leap, i struggle to have faith in religion as the logical side of me rejects it entirely and yet this feels different (cannot anesthetize longing). when buried emotions surface night after night and the mind buckles while agonizing and all you find is a coping mechanism for the temporary contentment disguised as relief, pain is not even a feeling anymore but the cost of clarity for the emptiness i thought i had escaped and maybe this struggle itself is the quiet confession despite the reminder of death, the voices dont argue because there is nothing at stake they argue because something unresolved refuses to die. If all were truly vanity, the ache would be silent. Instead, it persists less a demand for answers than a refusal to accept that emptiness is the final truth.
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 2:54 AM UTC
Chasing the storm will eventually lead to your own annihilation, even having the best times of your lives, there is no such happy redemption waiting, it is just mere human existence making the effort to make it worthwhile and the fight to overcome inadequacy, a never ending tunnel that consumes the very motive called purpose only to perpetuate an endless cycle of comfortable suffering, contemplating the fact, what is the origin of this suffering which is elusive, perhaps absurdism itself collapses under the weight of its own claim. The internal turmoil that you have to overcome every night is like cramming every thought that is not possible while nincompoops instruct you with their diatribes, guarding their precious opinions as if they were truths. Pain grows nuanced, almost merciful. No one truly cares what you care about, and that indifference feels fundamentally incomplete. As my lord says in Ecclesiastes 1:14 “I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.” why worry so much all for the cost to find your purpose, Memento mori brother, there is nothing to perceive beyond death. O’Connor and dostoevsky stood perilously close to nihilism tempted by it, saturated in it yet discovered inexhaustible meaning in Christ, i remain incapable of that leap, i struggle to have faith in religion as the logical side of me rejects it entirely and yet this feels different (cannot anesthetize longing). when buried emotions surface night after night and the mind buckles while agonizing and all you find is a coping mechanism for the temporary contentment disguised as relief, pain is not even a feeling anymore but the cost of clarity for the emptiness i thought i had escaped and maybe this struggle itself is the quiet confession despite the reminder of death, the voices dont argue because there is nothing at stake they argue because something unresolved refuses to die. If all were truly vanity, the ache would be silent. Instead, it persists less a demand for answers than a refusal to accept that emptiness is the final truth.
