I woke in a void, empty. The room appeared as a mirage: both there and not there. Stumbling across the room to get dressed, then sneaking downstairs and closing the door behind me, certain not to wake my wife and baby, I floated in a state devoid of thought. A machine running on autopilot. Our dog stood in his kennel, whimpering. I let him out and followed him into the kitchen and opened the backdoor to let him out. He ran, tail wagging. After pushing past the cats in the bathroom doorway, I took a leak and brushed my hair and put on deodorant. Then I ambled into the kitchen and kneeled in front of the oven—after turning on the exhaust vent overhead—and lit a cigarette.
I turned on my phone and checked the news: a slaughter in Las Vegas. More than fifty dead. As many as five hundred wounded. The emptiness inside expanded, consumed me. Neurotransmitters flooded my brain. Chaos. Depression. Thoughts attempted to rise but nothing appeared. I pictured the dead and wounded, blood filling the streets, and my depression deepened.
What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this? We’re meat feeding on chemicals, motivated by chemicals, until these organic machines stop. Then we cease to experience anything. The universe, as far as we’re concerned, blinks out of existence the moment we no longer perceive, think, feel, experience. We’re meat machines fueled by desire, without objectives—desire, for us, acts as both the means and the end. But the chemicals permeating this meat persuades us we’re somehow only incidentally meat. We’re something greater, some say, far great. Not animals. Special. (more…)