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For so many nights I have laid there under those sheets.

The cold, blissful silence of the wee morning hours have always been conducive for aimless contemplations of the mind. 

You know, life’s pretty surreal sometimes.


What’s all this for?

No, really, tell me what is all this for?

A fat pile of cash? A comfy, luxurious life to grow fat and complacent over? A lifetime of achievements that mean nothing to no one but yourself on the day you are forced to shut your eyelids for good?


I used to bubble with altruism. I used to think of “to make the world a better place” as the most noble, most utilitarian cause an individual could ever aim to live for.

Perhaps a truly significant contribution that will fundamentally change the way we live our lives for generations to come. Perhaps a one-inch equation of five variables that will permeate through humanity for millennia. Or perhaps ambitions less lofty; perhaps to just go, leaving behind a variety of chemicals that register as positive memories in the grey matter of family and friends.  


Laughable, isn’t it?

You grow up only to realise that so many things and so many people are already well beyond reprieve. So much is already cast in stone, so much is not worth trying for to begin with.

And what does it matter, when life as a whole means so little? Beneath delusions of an afterlife, beyond the corruptive lure of wealth, ego and power, after the passing of lust, sex and love, what else is there to life?

You think I’m the lone idiot who is paying the price for being a faithless, non-believing atheist, but I’ll tell you this: if all the things I said above weren’t true, none of us —not even the most religious fanatics— would fear death's call.