This is going to be a rather unusual post.
People have this rather annoying tendency: they exist.
This, so far, is obvious. The problem lies in the fact that existence is something even a simple brick can manage. We, however, have been blessed with the gift of Life. That takes us to a wholly different level, but even the common slug toiling around in your front yard at hypersonic speeds, can manage that, as well as the blades of grass it's chewing on. In fact, if we really want to get carried away from the higher forms of life, even something as simple as a single-celled politician can manage being alive.
But what is the point of existence laced with Life?
If we observe animals simpler than ourselves, it seems that the sole purpose of life is one thing: to preserve Life.
Every single living organism we know primarily occupies itself with nothing more than the endless consumption of food, so that it may stay alive for longer, so that it can have more sex, and thus extend the process of Life one tiny step further.
The intellectual biped at this point might come to the conclusion that the meaning of Life is therefore shoveling more food into your mouth and that Holiest of All Holes, pussy.
But what is the point of a process whose sole purpose is preserving itself?
Obviously the answer must be some masterpiece in the making for millions of years - like the planet Earth, for example, or the Solar System, which in another few billion years will shine its light across the galaxy as it explodes into a magnificient supernova.
But where is this endlessly self-preserving Life heading? What kind of galactic masterpiece could result from the endless repetition of "Eat, Fuck & Die", the infinite loop that some mindless microorganism set off a long time ago, to be continued by the first sea animals, the first land mammals, and.....
...hold on a minute! I can see some sort of pattern emerging here. A pattern of incremental progress, in fact!
Could it be that our dear Uncle Darwin was on to something, and that dumb little organism was planning something all along...
YOU ARE THE MEANING OF LIFE, YOU MORON.
And your girlfriend. And your friends. And me. And the old lady who lives next door, and fills the empty days of her existence by playing the lottery and watching TV; the guy from the corner store, the hobo on the sidewalk, smelly old uncle Jack, Albert Einstein, your mom, your dad, the thugs, the gangsters, the drug dealers. Every single thinking person to ever have existed.
You have consciousness. And not just any kind of consciousness: the unfathomably, unbelievably mind-boggingly freaking complex kind. You are the product of millions upon millions of years of eating and fucking, you are the Masterpiece of Evolution. You don't simply follow instincts and impulses; you think. You plan. You dream. You curiously observe and categorize the phenomena of the Universe into systematic concepts. You create never before seen things with the power of your imagination, and then you use your hands to bring them into physical reality.
|Never trust the robot!|
The process has thus acquired purpose: Life is no longer just about preserving itself.
A being has been formed that doesn't merely exist, like a brick, live, like a slug, or photosynthesize, like a politician, but instead it consciously and endlessly shapes the world around it. And even when it doesn't, it perceives it, understands it, contemplates it and seeks order in chaos.
Humanity is nothing less than the Universe experiencing itself.
Shocking, is it not? But it's true. And there are plenty of these things. In fact, YOU yourself are one of these magical super-beings.
And what do you do? You stare at this fucking monitor, and you read a blog to be entertained.
You don't live, you just exist, just like everyone else around you who base their "lives" around the premises of grabbing more money, grabbing more power, holding shinier objects in their hands, perceiving themselves to be somehow "more" than others and feeling good more often than bad. All that happens in between is just filler: when none of these apply, all you need to do is get comfortable in front of the shining box in your living room.
Stabbing Evolution in the back, the superbeing has thus degraded itself back to the level of the common slug.
You tug around all day, to work, to school, to the mall, to the store, but you never really get anywhere. All you manage to do is mess the whole place up with your slime.
Just like animals.
Except we don't feast on food anymore; we crave news, sensation, "facts", useless bits of information and images that get shoved into our consciousness without any sort of morals or control. And we all suck on it like Rebecca Black sucks dick on Friday.
Well here, you mindwhore, EAT.
-This morning I found a glass jar on my desk. I picked it up and as I was trying to focus my drowsy eyes on its contents, it moved.
As it turns out, this formidable creature nearly gave my mother a heart attack, when it suddenly ran across the table outside. She put all her fears aside however, grabbed a glass jar and heroically caught this beast thinking: this will be a lovely photo subject for deadmind...
Do I have a sick family? :-)
Our mega-spider was a cool little dude, and to be honest, a far better model than those excitable humanoids. He was posing as if he knew I was photographing him. I have to admit, while this mutant beast seemed to be staring directly into my eyes, I couldn't help feeling inferior: I only have two... he's got eight!
Speaking of inferiority, an authentic David-vs-Goliath situation soon emerged - with the possible exception that David was having a really shitty day...
(I told you it's gonna be an unusual post...)
Out of pure curiosity, I entered AlterBp into this year's Goldenblog competition. It's an annual selection of Hungarian blogs, where the winner in each category is chosen by a public vote.
Of course this blog is never going to win, there are so many over-advertised, mainstream photoblogs out there, including one that posts nothing more than professional photos of little kids (all the mommies and daddies will vote for that one). It has no chance against popular crap like that, but I'm curious to see just how far it gets. Voting ends on the 22nd of August, if you like this blog (or just don't want the smelly babies to win), please do cast your vote. :-) (you are going to need a fuckbook account)