Śūnyatā

It was all there in the banality
of our existence. It was what allowed us to let go, drop into a state of
perpetual free-fall that we took to with a flashing of the teeth. We became
savages drunk off the glory of self-idolatry. We cared for nothing, lived for
no greater good; emotion was left to become a dusty book-end upon which leaned
self-gratification. With no physical boundary or attack of morality or
conscience to stop us we became the pagan gods of our own self-worship.
Hardship became meaningless as was life as was death. Only pleasure and pain
insidiously brewing in a lethal cocktail could quench whatever it was that we
felt. And often our own pain was not enough. Perhaps calling us monsters would
not be sufficient but then again the idea of sufficiency in the world that we
lived in and eventually the one that we created as a substitute, simply became
empty. Nothing was sufficient in our initial modern tragedies and nor was
anything adequate in the malicious comedy that we crafted for ourselves. We
were not lost causes, nut-jobs, sob stories or anything of that manner. Our
realities were only what we made them, be it in the office or in the forests;
no matter the amount of substance abuse that we subjected our bodies to it was
all our creation, not that of hallucinations or ethereal incantation. Man is a
simple creature, but nowadays the world is not (...)

--- cały tekst ---