All my troubles.

All my troubles.

I thought about my troubles, all of them. Were they afar yesterday. How big were they, physically, were they bigger than me. A kilo-sized particle in the infinitude of the universe watching a dust particle float in a beam of mid-November sunshine. And all my troubles. How they mattered, and if they mattered. The purpose. The past, the future. I thought about my place in the universe, the scale of my existence, the premise, the aftermath, and why. I thought about all my troubles, and I thought about myself, my existence in this universe. Do I exist in this universe or does this universe exist in me?

Is existentialism conceptually becoming cliched? Do we believe just for the heck of it? We believe in the theory or concept that makes us feel the least afraid. We are constantly trying to “prove” theories to prove our existence on a scale grandiose. Come under the microscopic lens, are you still trying to relate every tiny little incident or are you letting it go. Either way, there is that constant debate, does that object matter? Are chance or coincidence beliefs of the weak-hearted? Is it wrong to be abstract? What stands between me and nirvana (nirvana being my purest self)? Uncertainty.

Decision-making under risk and uncertainty has logic and math to it. Though, you don’t know what you don’t know. I’m not going on a pessimistic rant, to find a solution I have to acknowledge it. A nihilist would say there is no solution. Apparently, its absurd to enjoy life after the fact. So, how to account for this uncertainty in everything? Whether to account for it altogether? You think you’re going to find an answer here? Get outta here, I’m just messing with you head.

Seriously though, where did we come from? We are seven billion and some change in a billion odd galaxies, growing at a pace faster than ever before. And what exactly are our troubles?

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