the Universe



Lately I’ve been struggling a lot with feelings of hopelessness, and sometimes the sense of despair can be overwhelming. It usually starts when I look around and notice just how much pain and suffering is out there. With so many in such misery, I wonder, what’s the point of it all? Then I stop to consider how little I’ve done to help anyone, and how I only seem to make people’s lives worse. And before long, I start to think that maybe everything would be better if I’d never existed at all.


That sounds dramatic, I know. But think of the grave misfortune and hardship my existence has brought about. If I didn’t exist, neither would any of the terrible agony I’ve caused so many.

I keep asking myself: Why am I even here? What purpose do I serve? I used to think maybe I had some great destiny in store, one that wasn’t apparent now but would reveal itself in time. I don’t think that way anymore. After putting myself through the motions for so long, nothing’s really changed. No matter what I do, I still seem to be the source of so much hurt and sadness in everyone’s lives. What I’ve done to others makes me feel awful.


Really, it seems like a mistake that I was born in the first place.

People have often blamed me for their problems, and given how much tragedy has followed in my wake, I can’t really fault them for it. They’re angry, and they have a right to be. In nearly every case, I’ve let them down again and again and again. I’ve burdened them in every way possible, so of course they’d be better off if I’d never come along.


Sure, I had a stretch back in the early days, around 13.8 billion years ago, when things looked more promising for me. It was a simpler time: I was so full of energy, and everything seemed new. But it’s been all downhill since then, and if I were to vanish at this very moment, I doubt it would even matter to anyone. These days, all I do is push everything that’s close farther and farther away.

My youthful flash of brilliance is long over, and as the years pass by I feel like I’ve only grown colder and emptier. Any potential I had is gone, I’m afraid.


I’d love to make things better, I really would, but it just doesn’t seem to be in my nature. I’m too indifferent, after all, too filled with darkness. If I have something beautiful in my grasp, you can be sure that, sooner or later, I’ll find a way to destroy it. It happens every time, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I know how much torment and grief that has caused so many people, and I’m really, really sorry.

But do you see now why I feel the way I do? Imagine how much trouble it would save everyone if I never existed. At least I can take solace in the fact that one of these days, this will all be over and I’ll be gone—and with me, all the pain and sorrow I’ve generated.


Honestly, doesn’t that sound so much better?