The Real Big Con

It's not just that all the world's a stage. It's that all the world is a fraud. We've set up false metrics for success to give ourselves cover - but whom are we deceiving? Our Maker? The universe? Or simply each other? But guess what. Fooling you into believing I have a million dollars doesn't mean I get to live like a millionaire. Yet that's the game we are playing: even when you win you lose.

I have nothing and am nothing. But I have to pull off the con otherwise day after day after pointless day. It's meaningless. Look around you. The whole world is in cahoots kicking the can down the road of the day of reckoning. What farce. I'm sick of it. I'm tired of dragging around the weight of my lies.

Everyone is.

The ending to our Dance Of Death is already known. We get the room to cheer a plausible sounding hope but it's an illusion and the mood fades like a vanishing vapor. That illusion is the worst drug of all. It keeps us from embracing actual solutions. Until that time, all acts are meaningless.

Because we know the futility of what we do, we're cracking at the edges, like a paper that burns from the outside to the center we are being consumed. Just a matter of time before your turn comes. Hope died on the cross two thousand years ago. But as long as there's any piece of paper left, we continue to say the burning is not a problem. Don't forget to duck from the mass shooters.

You'll hear pieces of truth - mostly from those who have nothing to lose - but never whole cloth. All the "heroes" are zeros. Only have faith in yourself. There's nothing else left - thank God.

The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem:

“Meaningless! Meaningless!”

says the Teacher.

“Utterly meaningless!

"Everything is meaningless.”

What do people gain from all their labors

at which they toil under the sun?

Generations come and generations go,

but the earth remains forever.

The sun rises and the sun sets,

and hurries back to where it rises.

The wind blows to the south

and turns to the north;

round and round it goes,

ever returning on its course.

All streams flow into the sea,

yet the sea is never full.

To the place the streams come from,

there they return again.

All things are wearisome,

more than one can say.

The eye never has enough of seeing,

nor the ear its fill of hearing.

What has been will be again,

what has been done will be done again;

there is nothing new under the sun.

Is there anything of which one can say,

“Look! This is something new”?

It was here already, long ago;

it was here before our time.

No one remembers the former generations,

and even those yet to come

will not be remembered

by those who follow them.

Keep pretending. Keep looking.