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Conway Judge's avatar

I always look forward to your essays and writings. Even when I am tired, I read them right away. Somehow I suppose I worry they might not be there another day.

Once upon a time, I felt a strong desire to immortalize myself.

I refused anything less than being left as a statue in a park somewhere, with a plaque at my feet explaining my achievements to any passerby.

Here I stand. I shall live forever in stone. Marvel at me.

But as I grew, I contemplated the immense length of the universe and time in general. The seemingly infiniteness of it all.

Whether remembered for a minute. For an hour. Or for a hundred years or even a millennia.

Proportionate to the immense length of infinity it is all the same. Nothing. A blip.

That isn't to say my life has no meaning. Every smile has a meaning. Every tear. Every year. Everything is infinitely more meaningful than never having the opportunity to live either.

But here we stand in these days when evil, actual evil, does seem to exist.

And it does seem to be doing everything you say, for probably the exact reasons you suggest. An infantile and immature need to immortalize themselves. History can always be rewritten later with their names as the heroes.

But this future they write is only a fantasy.

Unfortunately it won't come to pass.

And instead one-day we will be the heroes and the world will know exactly what they did and how they cried when they were caught.

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Rosh's avatar

gratuitous evil ..reminds me of the words of Oscar Wilde

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves,

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.”

― Oscar Wilde, Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde including the Ballad of Reading Gaol

Death instinct at work I guess and the loss/absence of conscience to counter this pull towards destruction

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