Does the Universe have an Existential Crisis?

This, is a pencil. A casing of fine timber around a little stick of lead, it’s dead. It lacks life and has no choice in what happens to it- a slackening of decision brought about by the death of that which was once alive and now encases that lead which was dead to begin with. It obeys the laws of physics. It falls when I let it go, and it gets lifted when I lift it. It’s thrown when I decide to throw it – look at it flying through the air,the pitiful thing; and it gets returned to me when I ask for it.

Mentioned before about the lead on the floor is that it was dead. It wasn’t that beautiful life had once existed in what could now be called a simple tool, a child’s toy – it was that it lacked the ability to change the world. It lacked the ability to push a rock and say that the world was now one rock position different. It lacked the ability to walk and say the world was one piece of lead different. It lacked the ability to breath and say the world was now one breath different, for the world is vain and proud and would not give in if no one was aware enough to observe it. Would the orange sunset with the yellow dancing across the horizon exist if no one was there to see it ? If a tree falls and makes a sound in a forest, has it made any sound at all if no one was there to hear it? Would a universe with a billion planets and a billion suns too hot or too cold to afford life even exist? Does that mean, then, that the universe depends on us for its existence, that somehow it's an organism that exists only because we perceive it? The only reason I pity this little pencil, my friend, is that it lacks the power to perceive. That's what makes it interesting, and yet not interesting at all.

It was the fact that it was nothing like us. It did what happened to it and what happened to It could never be changed. It was thrown when somebody threw it and lifted when somebody lifted it. We, boats against the current, little sparks against the darkness, waltzing away through blizzards, little pieces of shit aspiring to be anything but – just walking on and on to the grey gravestones of our ancestors and their ancestors taking little detours to reach the stones a little later on. Moral beings suspended in a universe so inherently immoral that the only way to escape was death, which was the greatest injustice of all. Barrels barreling down waterfalls waiting to be crushed at the bottom and doing nothing but enjoying the scenery, feeling the water on our tongues-the adrenaline rush that comes for a life expectancy average of 67 in our great country and then there is dust and there are gravestones and in millions of years of us degenerating – the particles of what we once were will now be billions of little pencils, casings of fine timber around a little stick of lead, inherently dead but bristling with that which was once alive and changed the world a breath at a time.