The Supernova

Another day, another day of engaging in relentlessly mundane work at the behest of a fat and greedy capitalist. The futileness that is felt and the pointlessness of the work he engages in violate his soul most aggressively and profoundly damaging manner, to the point where he feels like he is suffocating. He has an incandescent rage that burns with an effervescent fury, yet he has little to no outlet for such feelings. He screams for something tangible in the mayhem and furore which is constantly trying to engulf him, he scrambles to find meaning, to find a connection that binds himself to this reality which is constantly evading him. He has built a personality, a skyscraper built on nothing more than mud and leaves, the only thing that keeps the structure from falling into abyss and oblivion is the questionable, belief that somewhere within the creaking and leaking chassis is something that resembles himself; though how can one ever be certain?
 
Perhaps he is just a master builder, an architect of virtuous skill. ‘A brick here, a brick there’, the man would think, but if one lays too many bricks, one loses the original structure, how can one ever be certain if the brick that one is laying is, in fact, a brick that is worth laying, or whether the brick is being laid for aesthetics, which would be entirely different from laying a brick to improve the original structure. The problem is that, retrospectively, it’s extremely difficult to examine the brick's original purpose.
 
Aesthetics cloud our judgement, is a building of any more or less value if it is built to impress? Obviously, it isn’t. Yet the man would constantly be aware of the opulence and vanity that was engaged in by his fellow humans with callous disregard for the problems that are caused by the pursuit of aesthetics. People are suffering, and though the man would be dragged into near total oblivion by the feelings that would torment him, he wondered what was the point of building for beauty’s sake when other people were slaves.
 
He wanted to fight, to fight for beauty, real beauty as opposed to anything of aesthetic value. For love and the liberty of humanity. His friends would tell the man that perhaps he is ‘depressed’, but this would cause extreme confusion to the man, for there is nothing save profits. ‘We hurtle towards total oblivion’, the man would think, ‘yet we stand still’, for he believed that if there was such thing as beauty, then surely this is a cause that everyone should be willing to die for if one isn’t willing to die for anything, is one living for anything?

 

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