Geometry for Ocelots

by Exurb1a

The true horror of existence is not the certainty of death, nor the threat of hell, but the knowledge that we will likely go our entire lives as impossibly complex machines, walking about in an impossibly complex universe, and never truly discover what it was all for. I don’t know is brave. I’ll never know is heroic.

It seemed to him suddenly that self-hate was the result of a misguided attempt to please people one would never meet, and if one did meet such judgemental idiots, one would not respect them nor desire their respect in the first place.

Why, the house was burning down, but we were so enjoying the glow. .

Many will claim they are wise. Do not believe them; the wise are quiet. Many will claim they know nothing. Do not believe them; how could they know that? If you must seek the advice of anyone, make it the drunk. He knows the game means nothing and wins it by not playing.

The scientific method was a project begun as an attempt to understand nature’s splendour, but finished in total defilement. We started with trying to understand the mechanics of the heavens. We concluded with pleasure cruises and little plastic drinking straws.

For every dickhead on Twitter, there are ten thankless, good people in the real world quietly going about their lives, quietly trying to be kind. For all of history’s cruelty, for all the cruelty of the universe and its apathy and its trials, kindness is alive and well. If you haven’t seen it so much recently, well I have. It’s real and it’s abundant and it’s one of the many light corners of the human condition that cannot be killed. (And you will not find it on Twitter. Please stop looking for it on Twitter.)

The engine of history isn’t progress; it’s kindness. Thankless, quiet, everyday, mortal kindness.