Ingrates of truth.
You depend on its utility,
You revel in its luxury, and yet you spit in its face and deny it,
Like I do God.
Your stupidity is blatant, your ignorance astounding.
Sometimes I question if this truth is even worth knowing.
Trudging. Dragging. Crawling. Weighing. Sleeping. Slogging.
On and on. For how long?
I'm so tired. So very tired.
My nights are filled with tension, my days are a burning itch.
I worked so hard and for so long to come to a place where facts,
Evidence, and science matter and inform chiefly,
Only to be met with the reality of a time and people
That oppose and have damaged that entire idea.
I have not words, but a chest of feelings.
Heavy as the earth hanging 'round my neck.
It eats away my bones, eroding my posture, as Ι slowly implode.
Warring with its girth, gravity reshapes me. Bent by its weight,
I muster this utterance. Disbelief. Befuddlement.
Head scratched into oblivion.
Constant concern, like water torture, drips incessantly.
Sometimes I question if this truth is even worth knowing.
Futile slaves of entropy, toiling with its might.
Impassioned enthrallment with delusions of grandeur.
Ingrates of wisdom, spitting in its face.
Annihilation is the law, disorder is our destiny.
Consciousness is not exempt and will undo itself one day.
Self-destruction is inherent, and this is the Great Filter.