Who are you? What’s the purpose of your existence? Do your conceptions, your reality tunnel, serve a purpose? How are you even conscious of having reasons, understanding purpose? Isn’t this a shoddy construct? Aren’t you trapped, are we not all ghosts in the machine?
Will we be like birds, singing of bygone days of greatness, when we were masters of nature? Does the life of man persevere? Or do we end up coldly mounted on a pin, like some precious species of moth? If life’s an experiment, who’s outside the test tube?
Life; fragile and translucent, like the wings of a dragonfly hovering above a lake in summer. The dutiful hammering of a woodpecker — a sound heard by the ears of ancients. Drowned out by a lawnmower. Trés moderne.
We are lawnmower man, the mechanical reaper supreme. Lord of the jungle, for we have tamed it, sown it and mowed it. What is the purpose of existence, Mr. Lawnmower man?
Who are YOU?