Exploring the grand absurdity of unrequested existence

Some absurdities are so massive, we don’t dare to question them. Like, for instance, the way we all showed up here without ever being asked. No one sent you a cosmic survey with boxes like: “Would you like to be born into a world where mosquitoes exist and your knee gives out when you stand up too fast?” You just woke up in a burning world with no user manual and a body that starts aging the moment puberty hits. Happy birthday.

From the start, you’re parachuted into a generational melody where people celebrate things that make no sense. We throw parties for births, which are essentially non-cancellable subscriptions to suffering. We applaud diplomas—glorified pieces of paper that say, “Congrats, you endured academic absurdity without biting your teachers too much.”

And yet… they whistle.

The average human, instead of screaming into their pillow every night while contemplating their existence as an endless falling GIF, walks the dog, pays taxes, and posts selfies with cat filters. Why? Because we’ve been trained to believe life is a gift. Like receiving a sock with a hole in it, wrapped in fancy paper—just because it’s well-packaged doesn’t mean you have to say thank you.

This cosmic circus is stage-managed by people called “parents.” These architects of existence, often misled by hormones and a Friday night romantic comedy, expect thank-you calls and macaroni art in return. They plopped a brand-new human into an anxiety factory and said, “Good luck with that.” And we, the unwilling puppets of absurdity, spend our days trying to make macramé out of despair’s tangled strings.

But hold on: we decorate the void with fairy lights. Love, children, vacation photos on overcrowded beaches… anything to pretend it all has meaning. We turn chaos into tradition, suffering into poetry, bills into milestones of adult responsibility. It’s high-end denial, sponsored by the pharmaceutical industry and single-use coffee cups.

Meanwhile, in a quiet corner of your cortex, a thought whispers: “Did I even sign up for this?” And your brain replies, “Shhh, just watch Netflix.”

Existence is a giant biological lottery where you can lose without ever playing. Worse: the rules are blurry. Believe in a religion? Risk eternal damnation. Don’t believe? Well, you might still be wrong. And all this because two adults couldn’t operate a box of condoms properly.

Then comes morality. Be good. Be just. Be generous. Smile at neighbors. Recycle. All while never having been consulted on whether you wanted to participate in this real-life social experiment. It’s like being forced into an escape room where the only way out is death, and your main task is to pretend you’re enjoying yourself.

But hey, you get perks. Tiny chemical rewards called happiness: a vanilla ice cream, an Instagram like, a dog’s appreciative stare because you didn’t yell at it today. These are the breadcrumb treats tossed by absentee deities to keep us from noticing we’re spinning in circles inside a waiting room decorated like an existential IKEA.

So they whistle, these well-dressed bipeds. They whistle on their way to work, down the aisle, while paying for gym memberships they never use. Because contemplating the void is like staring into the sun—it burns, and it melts all illusions.

This text isn’t telling you to give up. It just wants you to look at the sponge of life and ask: “Why am I soaking wet when no one told me it was going to rain?” Maybe then, you’ll see this isn’t a poorly told fairytale, but a cosmic joke where the punchline was lost in translation.

And yet, they whistle.

But now, you know. You can still whistle too… just do it consciously. Like a sad saxophonist stuck in an elevator between two floors of the cosmos.

Fade out.