Memories from digital underground (fragment)

by Mr. Vertigo

Truth is, I don’t even know what the hell I’m still doing here. It’s probably some absurd conspiracy plotted by a being from the underworld, keeping me alive for some twisted reason I can’t even begin to imagine. Sometimes I suspect I’m like a character from some deranged writer, one of those who keeps his creation alive for a hundred years just so, at that age, he can say a key line to another character who actually matters. The rest? Pure filler. A hundred years of soup, shit, and empty Sundays just to deliver one sentence. It makes me laugh. Like a madman, of course.

But no one listens. I know that. I work with that hypothesis (a rather solid one, to be honest) that absolutely no one gives a damn about what I do, think, say, or stop doing. And so what? To matter, not to matter, what difference does it make? If all this is nothing but a farce, a badly written tragicomedy, a play that doesn’t even know when to lower the curtain. And then comes the blackout: we all evaporate, not even dust left behind. One insane world passed on to the next, each more absurd than the last, until someday the whole thing gets solemnly swallowed by a giant black hole. No applause, of course.

You don’t like thinking? I totally get it. Thinking causes dizziness, headaches, nightmares, and eventually leads to extreme loneliness.

And in the end, what for? What does one really gain from thinking? Camus wrote his own Notes from Underground. It’s called La Chute, The Fall. I’m writing mine too, but digital. The stupid mark on the wall of my cell isn’t a scratch: it’s the reflection of my face on the screen.