Master of the Universe

We find ourselves at a crossroads of nothing. The road appears to go on forever, but is there a road? A meager trail of crumbs, and no more than Wonder Bread. Our fellow man grovels upon each step, cherishing the bread as if there were a single ounce of substance to be consumed. Grovelers are ever lost, poor souls. In delusion, these crumbs turn to asphalt in which we pave our road to Hell. But build we must, for our legacy must live on! Pyramids, books, genocides, stone faces of memorial to prove that we are missed (but by who?). It is pathetic that we cannot move on and leave the past behind where it was, where it will always be. It is reflected so true in our current selves that we are horrified. We tell lies that all can see. And who is lost, silly boy? For we are all boys, and we are all men. What is the difference, really? We realize, in the depths of our vast and unexplored souls, that we are ever so tiny, too tiny to even remain as a glimmer upon history. Instead of reflecting upon our souls and changing who we are, what we do, and how we affect others, we build monoliths that will exist purely in time and no more.

Our quest for the great monolith, concrete proof that we are Masters of the Universe. We must adopt some key tenets. They are simple, and there is really only one when you boil it down: we exist to control. We can control two things, money (things) and man. Money we can connive for, but a human soul? This is the real treasure; blood diamonds are no more than fragments of glass when hailed in comparison. We must navigate the universe by taking more than we give. To hoard and pummel. Stomp and steal. Eliminate and acquire. Our fellow men are either to be stepped over, stomped on, or walked with. But all will eventually be stomped on and walked over if we are a true Master of the Universe.

The feeble-minded cannot and will not understand. They can own nothing, because it is ours. A pyramid built to reflect these little people would be no more than a heap of rubble, if they can even find how to acquire the stones to build such a pile. How pathetic that they don’t have a heap to prove themselves (prove what you ask, and I continue to ignore you). They go nowhere, like their cyclical thoughts that spin and weave into thin air. Pyrrho died without a single word to his name, how suiting. The man that questioned everything died in peace of old age, could you imagine?