The Human Condition
The absurdity of the human condition:
The only condition we try to make sense of,
Make reasonable,
Sanitized,
Certain,
Familiar,
When we know we can’t.
But still we love our categories,
As if life was a Christmas present
That we could neatly wrap
And put into boxes
Labeled “certainty”
But these labels soon break down,
Deconstruct,
Peeling off
Like bad adhesive,
Showing the naked truth:
That we are Odysseus,
Tossed about by the gods,
Armed with the illusion of control;
That we are Don Quixote
Forever fighting windmills
Indifferent to our moral quest;
That we are Hamlet,
Trapped within a cosmic play
Of uncertainty and death;
That we are Gatsby,
Reaching for the magic green light
That forever eludes our grasp;
That we are Sisyphus,
Vainly toiling with our rock,
Telling ourselves that we are happy;
And so we must forever fight
Our constant war against the world,
Embracing the faceless, empty void
With a warm and welcoming smile.
Copyright © Nick Ruff | Year Posted 2016
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