The search for meaning – a junkie’s fix. Short, sharp rush of revelation, then the cold sweat of doubt dripping down your temples. You crave it, that high, the justification, the purpose. But meaning’s a cut with a dull blade, leaves you jittery, paranoid. It twists your words into weapons, turns your neighbors into threats. All a big hairy social ape fight, dressed up in fancy suits and polysyllables. This meaning, it messes with your meat, fries your circuits. Hallucinations of purpose, visions of destiny. Drives men to carve their names on the backs of others with rusty spoons. Maybe it had a purpose once, this meaning racket, back when we were all swinging from the vines. Now it’s just a dead dog chasing its tail, a virus in the code. We’re all meat puppets dancing with entropy, and dressing it up in metaphors won’t slow that dance down one bit. Clawing, jittery, the need screams. Language, a flimsy scrim over primal hunger. Meaning twists the neural circuits, hallucinations bloom, paranoia a buzzing fly. Murder – the ultimate high, the final score in the game of meaning. Back in the primordial soup we came, driven by an ancient script. Now, the script crumbles, words dissolve in the acid bath of entropy. Dressing up the void ain’t gonna cut it, man. We’re all terminal cases, hooked on a meaning that ain’t there.
Meaning. Hot chrome facade, all glitter and gleam, promising some kind of existential download. Jack in, mainline that sweet validation, and for a flicker you’re plugged into the matrix of purpose. But the high fades, crashes you harder than a corrupted icebreaker. You’re left in the cold flats of existential dread, edgy, craving another hit. Worse, meaning messes with your wetware, throws up glitching error messages across your vision. Reality fractures, you see enemies in the mirror, hear conspiracies in the static. Makes otherwise sane meatbags into avatars of violence, whole factions warring over competing narratives. Back in the meatspace’s early access build, maybe meaning served a function. Now it’s just a legacy bug, an entropic glitch in the system. Sorry, chummer, the search for meaning’s a dead end. We’re all just meat caught in the time crunch, and sugarcoating entropy with metaphors ain’t gonna fix the system crash.
Meaning. A neural ice pick, jacked straight into the limbic system. Hits like a hot nova, but the crash? Pure psychic static. Makes you edgy, a walking glitch in the social matrix. Meaning – it’s all just legacy code, repackaged primate squabbles in a digital shell. Hacks the wetware, throws up a kaleidoscope of glitches – violence, paranoia, the whole damn shebang. Look, meaning was maybe our bootstrap program, got us this far. But the system’s running hot now, entropy’s a silent virus eating the code. We’re clinging to metaphors, trying to patch the holes with superstition. There’s no grand narrative, no hidden purpose in the code. Just gotta accept the void, man. It’s a hard reboot, but maybe that’s what we need.