Oyster Poop

So you think you have it all, right? You are smart, you put an effort in, you learned the tricks of the trade, and fortune favors the bold? And now the world is your oyster.

Well, shit.

The world is not your oyster, you are its phytoplankton. It will suck you through its slimy gills, digest and expel you, as pseudo-feces. You don’t even get to be real feces, just the “pseudo-” kind. This particular oyster goes through so much of your ilk, none ever get noticed as their meaningless instance of existence nurtures the Great Mollusk, slow, lazy and oblivious to the little specks of life that think themselves important.

“But wait!” cries you. “Even if all those other specks go unnoticed, some stick and becomes a seed of a beautiful shiny pearl!” Fat chance. There are no pearls. You may think they are, noticing the traces of other pseudo-feces that have not yet completely faded, but none of them will grow into pearls. And when some day the Great Unflappable Oyster flaps its calcified shell one last time, filters its last millilitre of dirt and muck and finally ceases to exist, so would all traces of everything that ever had a misfortune of passing through its short and unsophisticated digestive tract.

What does your skill, talent and luck matter then, you little pseudo-shit? In a race to leave the longest trace possible, there are no winners. Just give up now, let the Mollusk do what it will, until you are no more. Not that you have that choice. A little speck of plankton thinking itself sentient, you are stuck embedded in the watery stream of future not-quite-poop, watching yourself flailing about as the inevitable end comes upon you all too soon.

Scratch that. You matter. Everything you do matters. It matters to you, and to those who matter to you. Mind over matter. What matters is what you feel and think, as long as you are alive.

Just kidding. Nothing matters. Go away.

60cookie-checkOyster Poop

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