I suppose we all want our time to mean something. Other animals seem content with simply existing – fucking and eating, moving about leisurely. But not humans. Humans have to create, have to reach deep and grasp for meaning. We press onward, push against the friction of paralyzing fear, watching the pendulum swing back and forth.
Today, the pendulum swings far and wide, reaching towards the sky, unconstrained by chains and bonds and unstained by reality. Today, the pendulum is free. Today, there is slick momentum pressing me onward. Only one question lingers: what does my time mean? What is the purpose of all this?