How many stories could we tell about whatever the hell this shit is?

Infinitely many.

By definition only one of those could be true. That means there is a 0% chance that the one you are telling yourself is true. Zero. ZERO.

And the thing is, there is no truth in any story. Not even the one. Because it’s all stories. All bullshit.

So the only truth is: No story is true.

There’s just experience.

The end.

Sometimes I share some of this nonsense with others. To see where and why they disagree. To get an idea of how they would argue against all this. And every time the same thing occurs.

Absolutely nothing. Nobody engages with any of it. Which makes sense of course because, how would you handle a nuclear bomb that was sure to flatten everything you hold dear? You wouldn’t! You’d take a wide berth. Or lock it away. Or ignore it. You wouldn’t pick it up and inspect it. Or poke it.

And that’s what happens. Nothing whatsoever. Ever.

And the funny part is. Even though I understand it. It perplexes me.

Which is funny. Ha ha.

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