Benefit
Bluelighter
This is a first draft. Please comment if you want.
* * *
“That shit’s all bullshit anyway. It doesn’t matter. Think about it like - I mean, you know, think about it for a second, like this. You’re afraid of dying, right? Afraid of that light going out, your light going out, being wreathed in darkness, motionless, nothingness forever and ever and ever? That’s gonna be you. You’re afraid of what it means to be nothing. And you’re afraid, you know, because you don’t know shit about being nothing. It scares you. You don’t want to be nothing. You like being something.
“But you know more than you think. You’ve already been nothing, you know what it’s like you just don’t know that you know. That make sense?”
“Nope.”
“OK, think about the timeline. You’re born, you live, you die, then nothing. Fine, that’s a scary thought and all but it omits a very critical phase. What were you before you were born? Time didn’t stand still before you were born into this world. The universe was around 13 billion years before you were born, so where were you for all that time? What were you? Were you you? Were you nothing? Get what I’m saying?"
“Not really. Your positing a totally paradoxical concept. It’s not possible to have a notion of self before you are born. You don’t exist before you exist. So what you are saying is nonsense. ”
“Exactly, you were nothing before you were born. And you’ll be nothing again when you die. You’ve already been nothing, so it shouldn’t be so scary. You ever read Hemmingway?”
“No.”
“Nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada. Hail nothing full of nothing. That’s Hemingway.”
“Sounds like drivel.”
“Maybe it is. But that’s just it. You don’t get to choose what’s drivel and what’s not. If the whims of society hadn’t decided, sort of arbitrarily, that what he wrote was genius, Hemingway would have been just another suicidal alcoholic loser. People, society, chance; they decide these things, and they don’t always make sense. In fact, they almost never make sense. What makes a Picasso a masterpiece? Ever seen a Picasso? Does it look like genius to you? If Picasso painted Guernica in the 16th century he would have been burned as a heretic. Why is Jackson Pollock remembered as a genius and not an emotionally disturbed maniac with a penchant for hurling paint around like vomit? How come William Blake died in obscurity but we hail him today as a visionary? What’s the secret?
“Pure fucking chance. Hail nothing full of nothing. Fuck you, that’s what. It doesn’t have to make sense, that’s life. One guy works in Brooklyn. One guy works in Manhattan. You got a lawyer, a doctor, a painter, a schizophrenic. One guy gets well. Another guy dies. People are born. You know what I mean?”
“Actually… frankly… no. No I don’t. I don’t have any idea what the fuck you are talking about. You've just been prattling nonsense for the last five minutes.”
“I guess you haven't seen Taxi Driver.”
“Nope.”
“Nevermind then. It’s still the same, everywhere you go. Pure fucking chance. Your whole life is chance, random. Control is an illusion. You beat six billion microscopic tadpoles to an egg. Congratulations. That's the only reason you're here. Quite a miracle. God playing Yahtzee with your dad’s sperm. Think about this for a second. If your dad had jacked off just one more time that day he would have shot you out before he ever fucked your mom and you’d be just another stain on the mattress. How’s that for a mind fuck?”
“…”
"You drove to San Francisco last week right? How many bugs did you crush on your windshield? That’s right. You probably took about thirty of those fuckers out. They’re just flying around, living their life, and wham! it’s over, because God or fate or gravity or a gust of wind chose them to perish on thine windshield that day. And that is it. An insect splats on your windshield, and that is life. And yeah, sure, you can do math, and you can drive a car, and you can love and write poetry and raise kids and build skyscrapers and invent electricity and build transcontinental railroads but you’re going to get splatted on a windshield some day too, and for no reason at all. It's just the way things happen.”
“That’s very reassuring.”
“But there’s no need to worry. If that insect could talk he'd say 'Go forth and fear no darkness for today is a sword day… a red day, ere the sun rises!’ "
“Shakespeare?”
“Lord of the Rings. JRR Tolkien. So you don’t read books. You don’t watch movies. And you don’t watch movies made from books. What the fuck do you do?”
* * *
“That shit’s all bullshit anyway. It doesn’t matter. Think about it like - I mean, you know, think about it for a second, like this. You’re afraid of dying, right? Afraid of that light going out, your light going out, being wreathed in darkness, motionless, nothingness forever and ever and ever? That’s gonna be you. You’re afraid of what it means to be nothing. And you’re afraid, you know, because you don’t know shit about being nothing. It scares you. You don’t want to be nothing. You like being something.
“But you know more than you think. You’ve already been nothing, you know what it’s like you just don’t know that you know. That make sense?”
“Nope.”
“OK, think about the timeline. You’re born, you live, you die, then nothing. Fine, that’s a scary thought and all but it omits a very critical phase. What were you before you were born? Time didn’t stand still before you were born into this world. The universe was around 13 billion years before you were born, so where were you for all that time? What were you? Were you you? Were you nothing? Get what I’m saying?"
“Not really. Your positing a totally paradoxical concept. It’s not possible to have a notion of self before you are born. You don’t exist before you exist. So what you are saying is nonsense. ”
“Exactly, you were nothing before you were born. And you’ll be nothing again when you die. You’ve already been nothing, so it shouldn’t be so scary. You ever read Hemmingway?”
“No.”
“Nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada. Hail nothing full of nothing. That’s Hemingway.”
“Sounds like drivel.”
“Maybe it is. But that’s just it. You don’t get to choose what’s drivel and what’s not. If the whims of society hadn’t decided, sort of arbitrarily, that what he wrote was genius, Hemingway would have been just another suicidal alcoholic loser. People, society, chance; they decide these things, and they don’t always make sense. In fact, they almost never make sense. What makes a Picasso a masterpiece? Ever seen a Picasso? Does it look like genius to you? If Picasso painted Guernica in the 16th century he would have been burned as a heretic. Why is Jackson Pollock remembered as a genius and not an emotionally disturbed maniac with a penchant for hurling paint around like vomit? How come William Blake died in obscurity but we hail him today as a visionary? What’s the secret?
“Pure fucking chance. Hail nothing full of nothing. Fuck you, that’s what. It doesn’t have to make sense, that’s life. One guy works in Brooklyn. One guy works in Manhattan. You got a lawyer, a doctor, a painter, a schizophrenic. One guy gets well. Another guy dies. People are born. You know what I mean?”
“Actually… frankly… no. No I don’t. I don’t have any idea what the fuck you are talking about. You've just been prattling nonsense for the last five minutes.”
“I guess you haven't seen Taxi Driver.”
“Nope.”
“Nevermind then. It’s still the same, everywhere you go. Pure fucking chance. Your whole life is chance, random. Control is an illusion. You beat six billion microscopic tadpoles to an egg. Congratulations. That's the only reason you're here. Quite a miracle. God playing Yahtzee with your dad’s sperm. Think about this for a second. If your dad had jacked off just one more time that day he would have shot you out before he ever fucked your mom and you’d be just another stain on the mattress. How’s that for a mind fuck?”
“…”
"You drove to San Francisco last week right? How many bugs did you crush on your windshield? That’s right. You probably took about thirty of those fuckers out. They’re just flying around, living their life, and wham! it’s over, because God or fate or gravity or a gust of wind chose them to perish on thine windshield that day. And that is it. An insect splats on your windshield, and that is life. And yeah, sure, you can do math, and you can drive a car, and you can love and write poetry and raise kids and build skyscrapers and invent electricity and build transcontinental railroads but you’re going to get splatted on a windshield some day too, and for no reason at all. It's just the way things happen.”
“That’s very reassuring.”
“But there’s no need to worry. If that insect could talk he'd say 'Go forth and fear no darkness for today is a sword day… a red day, ere the sun rises!’ "
“Shakespeare?”
“Lord of the Rings. JRR Tolkien. So you don’t read books. You don’t watch movies. And you don’t watch movies made from books. What the fuck do you do?”
Last edited:
