A Pilgrimage of Pain

Life, what makes it beautiful? Life is beautiful because of suffering. Time, why does it flow toward the future? It merely follows the same old course, forever casting an indifferent gaze upon the world. What are we, in the eyes of the universe? Pitifully finite beings, fixed in place within an infinite world. That is all. Ants in the eyes of those so-called masters, perhaps not even as worthy as ants. Miracles within finite existence, inevitabilities within the infinite. Nothing ever had meaning in the infinite. All that remains is emptiness. But we cannot walk their path. We are destined to struggle through all this. We are merely prisoners of the finite, waiting quietly for our end. Those who write stories must inevitably become part of one themselves. Come along with us, you unlucky soul caught up in possibility. You once named yourself Ibylos, an ordinary person who could change the world with a pen in hand. Now you have entered your own world, beginning your struggle and... your wait for death. A story that truly belongs to you. How will you write it?