The Blackness

It's natural. It's what happens when Fortune has not seen fit to remember you for some time. Suddenly things appear as merely what they are. A world full of inanimate objects. Empty space, filled with existential loneliness. The problem cannot be cured because it isn't the result of a cognitive distortion, but rather too much realism. 

One looks upon their prize, won after much struggle, and the mind immediately implies an array of potentials. Future adventures. These projections lose their import over time and you find yourself holding in your hands some stupid object. What was the battle won for? Might it just as well have been lost? All of the mythology and mystery: Confusion and Chinese telephone.

There is an oily, vanta-black ink that slowly swallows and consumes all. Not unlike the fungi that absorbs the nutrients and strength of a tree, the yeast that suffocates in its own alcohol, the Easter Island tribe that cut down the last tree, zombies spreading a mindless infection, a race of intelligent animals burning up their atmosphere; this blackness is the essence of life itself and all I see is food and fodder to feed and endless hunger. As the universe reaches maximum entropy, this undifferentiated blackness will be all that remains.

We feel it in ourselves, a constant drive for needs to be relieved of. Our economy thrives off manipulating artificial desires. The Hunger is all that we are, happiness and pleasure are it's slumber. This suicidal growth is so obvious it goes unspoken until it is finally unnoticed. Unremembered. It is the background to every conversation. It is the statue beneath the barnacles. It is the problem that cannot be addressed, the eye that cannot be seen.

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