Is ultimate drunken failure and accidental success not your best reward?
Should you not, therefore, be happy—even grateful—that you were intentionally designed to not live forever in this form?
Otherwise, would we not be forever trapped in the limitations of our own shortcomings?
There is a constant guilt in doing so when there is so much to be done, yet we must enjoy it. In the end, it is your only true power: to look past all the blood, backstabbing, machinations, and universal grime, and to enjoy this limited dimensional prompt in spite of it all. Perhaps Camus, Nietzsche, and even Marcus Aurelius weren't completely full of shit after all in their love letters to enjoyment for existential sake alone—joined by the likes of Bukowski and Kerouac, toastmasters of the beautiful, grit-stained ride.
There had to be a wanderer—a curious seeker—forever in search of short-lived treasure, eternally hitherto unknown.
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