The Genealogy of the Absurd
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A commentary on the burden of consciousness
I fear the dragon. I fear what comes from it, including suicide.
Oh suicide, what is it really? For a truism of life is that no one knows about death.
But perhaps, it is a confession; a confession that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it.
I chuckle, is it worth the trouble dear Sisyphus?
The trouble of your rock, your boulder, your burden.
For I have asked “Why?” though I expect no answer.
Isn’t that absurd?
I chuckle, is it worth the trouble dear camel?
You bear your burden and serve the dragon only to slay him later as a lion.
Both the last man and the overman know this feeling too.
They all feel deprived as an alien; as a stranger.
Oh Diogenes you old friend, you realized this too. But it seems as if cynicism is the blade taken to the mind.
What a poor way to face life.
Philosophical suicide kills more than anything else, and it is more perennial than the grass.
When I see it, I am reminded of the dragon.
Perhaps it does have a purpose; perhaps its scales are more than a reminder of your constant shortcomings.
Rise overman, for you are not dead yet.
Realize the absurd walls; move to overcome them with absurd freedom.
God is dead, so you must live.
Lead the herd as best you can, though it is futile.
Picture Sisyphus smiling as you bear your burden.
And I chuckle as I rebel to the tune of my superego.
Perhaps then my iceberg will remain afloat?
And through the fight against its evaporation, a child is born.
Thus whispers Zarathustra.
