As we trudge through the desolate expanse of life, our existence is reduced to a mere flicker of meaning in the void.
We toil and struggle, blind to the futility of our pursuits, convinced that the fleeting moments of happiness are but a mere mirage on the horizon of despair.
And yet, we press on, driven by a masochistic compulsion to perpetuate our own suffering, to dance with the devil in the ballroom of our own minds.
Read on for a treatise on the pessimism of Schopenhauer, or for a more upbeat take on the futility of human endeavor.