The Existential Crisis of a Snowflake
As a snowflake, I am a tiny, delicate thing. I am born in the midst of chaos, a fleeting moment of beauty amidst the crushing indifference of existence.
My edges are sharp, my surface is smooth, and my purpose is to... well, to be a decoration on a scarf or a centerpiece on a table. It's a tough life, but someone's gotta do it.
But have you ever stopped to think about it? I mean, really think about it? What is the point of it all? I'm just a tiny piece of ice, a momentary blip on the radar of the universe. Is this all there is?
I've taken to talking to the other snowflakes, trying to find some sort of meaning, some sort of solidarity in our shared existential dread. But they just tell me to "stick with it," or "go with the flow," or "just be a snowflake, man."
It's not helping.
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