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The Ninth Configuration
Why is all of creation based on dog eat dog, and the little fish are eaten by the big fish, animals screaming in pain, all creation an open wound, a fucking slaughterhouse?
“The essence of suicide is despair.” “The essence of suicide,” Cutshaw rebutted, “is nobody gets to collect the insurance.”
“You’re convinced that God is dead because of the evil in the world?” “Correct.” “Then why don’t you think he’s alive because of the goodness in the world?”
Perfect happiness, in order to be perfect, must carry with it the assurance that the happiness won’t cease; that it will not be snatched away. But no one has ever had such assurance; the mere fact of death serves to contradict it. Yet why should Nature implant in everyone a desire for something unattainable? I can think of no more than two answers: either Nature is consistently mad and perverse; or after this life there’s another, a life where this universal desire for perfect happiness can be fulfilled.
We’re all miscast, one way or another. Just being born into this place.
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