THE PARADOX
Babies wail their first breath as the dying exhale their last. People drift through your life like chapters—some underline themselves in red ink, others fade like pencil marks. We bury loved ones but carry their ghosts in our ribcages. And through it all, these questions gnaw:
Why plant trees when we’ll never sit in their shade? Why hustle? Why try? Why wake up every morning to a job where your boss treats you like a malfunctioning cog? Is it worth it? Why must we fail before we learn? What’s the point of everything?
That soul-crushing job you should’ve quit last year? You’re still doing it. That near-fatal accident you barely avoided? You remember the headlights… yet here you stand.
Quantum immortality suggests: In some universe, you never die—you just shift to timelines where you survive. Your consciousness hitchhikes across realities, forever dodging the "Game Over" screen. So here’s the terrifying question: Are we all just cosmic cockroaches, surviving nuclear winters of probability?
That job you quit? Some version of you is thriving as a Bali digital nomad. That love you walked away from? Another you is growing old with them. Parents dream of watching their children flourish. Lovers swear on eternity—until reality reminds them they’ll turn to dust.
But here’s the twist: Your hustle curates which versions of you get to exist. Every morning, you choose the timeline where you build something. The timeline where you give up also exists—but only one feels "real."
Sometimes, it feels like this world is just a simulation—an advanced illusion where nothing is truly real. Déjà vu? Glitches in your personal simulation.
Sometimes, it seems like every action is watched by something greater than us.
Sometimes, it’s as if a process loops in our minds, replaying, as though our choices were already known by some unseen force.
There are moments when we feel dead or detached In those moments, we see ourselves as spectators in our lives.
Is this paranoia? A glitch in perception? Or is there something deeper?
Something observing, steering, replaying our lives like a script we never agreed to follow.
The unsettling truth? We may never know for sure.
I reassure my self by saying this words: whether this is a simulation, a test, or just the chaos of existence, I can still feel my self. And that feeling, whether real or programmed, is mine to interpret, resist, or accept.
I’m a Christian. I cling to what I know: Jesus. Yet even faith doesn’t shield me from this creeping doubt. It lingers…
Science says you’re a trillion-to-one accident—stardust, lightning strikes, and ancestors surviving plagues. So why not stay? The odds of you existing were worse than winning the Powerball.
Yet here you are. Breathing. Pushing.
Even if the multiverse is real, somewhere there’s a you who already quit. But there’s also a version still swinging. That’s the universe whispering: "Keep going. Something’s coming."
THE ONLY VALID ANSWER
We live because we haven’t died yet. Every breath is rebellion against entropy. Every sunrise is the cosmos saying: "Not today."
You don’t need a reason to live. (What if that reason vanishes—like a man who loses his family, yet remarries and builds anew?) You just need something to push against.
So push. If it’s God, push. If it’s love, push. If atheists curse the sky while others beg God for life—push anyway. And if that fails? Push harder.
Thanks!