I haven't written anything for a very long time. I haven't read anything for a very long time either. All I do is scroll. And yet every now and then, my brain reminds me that I want to do more than that. It's the times when scrolling no longer gives me the satisfaction it once did and when the dopamine hits don't hit as strongly as they used to. That's when I put my phone down and stare at the wall, feeling sick to my stomach. There's no meaning to any of this; there's no higher power that would make this turmoil worth my time. Every question I have can simply be answered with "just because". Evolution wasn't looking for logical answers to philosophical questions, and neither should we. And yet there's something that keeps eating at me, longing for answers to questions that have none. "Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined," is what Camus writes in The Myth of Sisyphus. The more you prod, the more you realise how futile everything is, how hilariously absurd we all are. What does nothing mean? What's going to happen after? It is knowledge that hurts us most, because it uncovers how much we don't know. We're all made of the same stuff; there's no difference between us. Still, we feel so special, fabricating legends and religions, trying to rationalise our existence and accept our human condition. Arguably, that is the easiest way to go about it. I envy those that can believe in such stories, I feel both superior and inferior to them. Because just as there's no meaning in knowing the truth, there's equally no meaning in believing the falsehoods. If I could create a reason, a sense of purpose to all of this, I wouldn't have to suffer as much for there would be the promise of resurrection justifying the ugliness of everyday life. Despite knowing that there is no answer, my mind still wanders, longing for comfort. Comfort is the main thing humans seek, not the truth. They seek comfort in knowing they're right. But sometimes the mind fights back, seeing the gaps and blind spots, creating questions that cannot be answered, tearing apart the very fabric of our being. And then everything falls apart, the truth stands naked right before our eyes, and we refuse to accept it because of how ordinary it is. Surely there's more we say, hopeful. But there's nothing more nor less than nothing. We are born, we live and we die. Cognition is just a byproduct of evolution trying to keep us alive. It is beautiful in a way, knowing how finite everything is. But it is also human nature to search for more. And that is the endless cycle.