Waiting

Always waiting. An existential snare pulled tight around the neck of humanity. Like a wolf that wanders into a farmer’s trap, we snarl and thrash about in futility until he comes around to put a bullet in our head. Waiting for the weather to change, for an opportunity to arise, for things to get better—for that nebulous time in the future when you can finally do what you want to do. It will have all been worth it, just not now. Not yet. There is no future. It isn’t real. Hope is a comfortable lie. The snare is a creation of your own mind, an illusion born of fear. Cowardice in the face of inevitable annihilation.