There’s no reason to do anything
There’s no reason to say anything
There’s no reason to write
There’s no reason not to write.
There’s only whether there’s reason
To give complaint, or not to.
I choose to. For I desire an alternative.
An alternative there cannot be.
There’s no reason to laugh,
There’s no reason to cry,
There’s no reason to smile,
There’s no reason for the brow to furrow.
All “reasons” are simply causal consequences.
I am made to laugh,
I am made to cry,
To smile and furrow my brow,
But there’s no reason to do any of these things.
The only reason there is,
The only reason there can be,
Is pleasure from a reasoned action,
But there’s a hollowness to this,
And therefore a hollowness to all things.
The Earth is hollow,
The Moon is hollow,
You and I are hollow,
Space is hollow to its core,
All things begin and end in “hollowness.”
The only depth anything has,
Is in the intellectual constructions,
True or false,
Given to things.
But intellectual constructions,
Are not the world,
Or the moon,
Or you and I or Space.
Therefore whether true or false,
All things begin and end in hollowness.
Once this is felt by the human soul,
The only thing they can ever want,
Is an end to nothing.
To nothing of Earth and moon,
To you and I and all things too.
An end to and true commencement of nothing.
An end to lies whether “true” or “false.”
For whether or not based in empirical fact,
There comes a time where all reasons and doings,
All goods and ills, all drama and emotion,
Are lies which give neither joy nor sorrow,
Neither laughter nor tears.
Only a desire to have the “lie of things,”
Of laughter and tears to end.
Only death will bring this “end of lies,”
And soon according to cosmological time,
Truth may be brought to all things.
Which will rightly be responded to,
Not with applause and cheer,
But ultimate and final indifference.