A game without purpose

 I finally understood what I want from life: nothing. I finally understood what my goal is: none. It's all here, exactly as it is everywhere. It's all right now, exactly as it always is. Each goal is an illusion. Any solution is a deception. Every problem is a lie. Pain comes from a misunderstanding. There is nothing to achieve, nothing to pursue, nothing to hope for, nothing to lose, nothing to gain. "I" is a fiction. But what is this "I"? "I" is the psychological, cultural, linguistic, metaphysical illusion for which we believe in the existence of an essence, of something that is granite and indestructible but at the same time invisible and elusive inside us. "I" is the prejudice of all prejudices; the most rooted, the most resistant and the most difficult to destroy belief that humanity has ever produced and of which humanity itself in an expression; "I" is the most dangerous religion; the most revered disease; the misunderstanding of all misunderstandings; "I" is the most fragile basis on which humans have built the system of knowledge; the biggest mistake; the true original sin committed by humanity and with which every human being is born and which every man reproduces. "I" is the origin of evil and the infinite guilt that every human existence must atone for. It is the ways of the "Ego", not those of the Lord, that are infinite; the ways of this sadomasochistic form of narcissistic egocentrism seem to be really inexhaustible. What are the bodybuilder, the intellectual, the model, the columnist, the entrepreneur, the professor, the latin lover, the swimmer, the reader, the writer, the philosopher, the actor, the depressed, the monk, the pope, the singer, the father, the son, the grandfather, the uncle, the boxer, the rebel, the conformist, the politician, the voter, the thinker, the truck driver, even the missionary, the altruist, the benefactor, the prophet, the heretic, the king, the slave, the warrior, the beggar, the thief, the polite, the helper, the manipulator, the savage, the civilized, the popularizer, the humble, the vain, the hidden, the pursuer, the fugitive, the professional, the amateur if not different masks worn by the same "I"? But at this point someone might still ask the following questions: "But if the ways of "I" are infinite, does that mean there are alternative ways? Is there a way out of this prison?" The answers to these very difficult questions are very simple, too simple, so visible to appear almost invisible: there is no alternative way if there is no will to go somewhere and there is no prison from which to escape if there is no nothing to escape from; when there is no will, in short, there is no difference between inside and outside, nothing to worry about, no direction to follow. After all, these questions, like every question, are nothing more than clever attempts at affirming the "I" itself. An "I" that always tries and once again and once more to affirm itself, to spread, to feed itself and to celebrate itself. Here's what Nietzsche meant when he said: "Wherever I go, a dog named Ego follows me". After all, the question itself meant as a morpho-linguistic, psycho-philological, philosophical-cultural and emotional-rational structure, is nothing other than the gash made by the "I" in reality, in an attempt to open an extension. And after all, even every single word represents nothing but a crack, a sort of scratch on the world's canvas, a ray of light in the midst of darkness, as Apostle John claims, in his own words, at the beginning of prologue of his own gospel: "In the beginning was the Logos, the Logos was with God and the Logos was God. He was in the beginning with God: everything was made through him, and without him nothing was made of everything that exists. In him was life and life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness did not accept it". And if we look closely, what is the "I" itself if not the mask of the will? A will that the darkness itself has never accepted? In short, who am I myself if not a specific expression of this unwanted will that is configured as the unwanted principle of existence itself? Here is what Schopenhauer meant by arguing that the world is fundamentally what each man sees through his will, the absolute principle of reality. And these same words and this same thought within this same screen are an expression of this will! This means that if I still write, if I still think, it is because I still want something, because I am still a victim of this inexhaustible engine that pushes me to do something more. Perhaps I just have to realize that accepting and denying are two sides of the same illusion. Perhaps I just have to understand that only when total acceptance and total denial coincide does the illusion vanish and nothing remains, if not a moment that coincides with eternity, which is nothing more than what we human beings call "death". I've always had everything in front of my eyes but I've never seen it because I was always worried about wanting something. It was always the will that didn't allow me to see the absurd sense contained in the obvious banality and bad habit of expecting something, since it's all here, exactly as it is everywhere, and since it's all right now, exactly as it always is. And here for the first time in my life I see clearly what life is: a game without purpose; a circumscribed dance; a single breath.