Entropy’s Favorite Human

Of course, everything is perfect. Absolutely perfect. The universe, in all its infinite wisdom, decided that probability, chaos, and cosmic timing make a far better companion than any presence ever could. The silence in your room? Oh, it’s not silence at all—it’s the sound of galaxies expanding, of stars exploding somewhere you’ll never see. Lucky you. Every echo feels like a lullaby only you were chosen to hear. Truly, who needs company when you have the infinite void singing you to sleep?

And the nights? Divine. Truly divine. Nothing quite compares to lying awake while constellations above laugh in Morse code, as if they know the punchline and you don’t. Sleep is outdated, anyway. Dreams are for amateurs. Reality itself is already absurd enough. You lie there, motionless, watching shadows crawl across the ceiling, each one reminding you that space is vast and cold and mercilessly empty—just like the inside of your chest. A designer emptiness. Cosmology’s greatest invention.

Even the rituals of life sparkle with irony. Making coffee for one has become a spiritual practice. You stir it slowly, pretending entropy itself is guiding your spoon. Two cups? That would be an insult to the elegance of quantum mechanics, where nothing stays together anyway. Eating in silence? That isn’t loneliness—it’s alignment with the laws of thermodynamics: everything drifts apart, sooner or later, including meals, molecules, and meaning. And when you laugh at something only you can hear, it isn’t madness. It’s just quantum entanglement with echoes probability forgot to delete.

And the memories—oh, what a luxury. They don’t even belong to you anymore; they belong to spacetime. You’re just the museum guard cursed to watch them flicker across your mind like old film reels that won’t stop playing. They blaze in at odd hours, brilliant as comets, tearing across your chest. You don’t choose them—they choose you, dragging you back into moments that no longer exist, forcing you to relive both the beauty and the cruelty. How elegant, how poetic: a universe infinite enough to hold countless galaxies, yet still small enough to keep you trapped in orbit around something that isn’t even here. Bravo, physics. Ten out of ten for cruelty.

And silence, oh yes, silence has become an artist. It paints your room in broad strokes, carves out the spaces where words used to live. You sit in it like a monk who didn’t choose the monastery but was locked inside anyway. Silence is no longer just the absence of sound—it’s the presence of everything that should have been said but never will be. The universe clearly designed it this way: an ongoing experiment in how long a human can survive on echoes alone.

Of course, you could resist. You could fight back. You could rage against fate, demand stability, beg the universe for mercy. But why bother? Why wrestle with mathematics? Why try to bend probability in your favor when the dice were loaded from the beginning? Better to surrender. Better to let destiny drag you across the chessboard, sacrificing you like a pawn in its cosmic game. After all, who would dare spoil such exquisite suffering with a desperate plea for comfort?

So yes, you’re fine. Absolutely fine. Fine like a particle that exists in two places at once but belongs to neither. Fine like a black hole—dense, invisible, swallowing everything that dares come close, while pretending it’s just another star. Fine like a wave that collapses the instant anyone looks too closely.

And when people ask, you smile. You joke. You keep the sarcasm sharp, polished, ready. You wear it like armor so no one suspects the truth. No missing, no longing, no cracks in the surface. Everything is perfect. Everything is aligned. Everything is exactly how the universe wanted it.

But somewhere, beneath the physics, beneath the stars, beneath the laughter that isn’t laughter, beneath the sarcasm sharp enough to cut—you know. You know exactly how infinite the emptiness really is. You know how vast a galaxy feels when it fits neatly inside your chest. You know how loudly silence screams when there’s no one left to quiet it.

And maybe that’s the cruelest joke of all. Not that the universe is indifferent, not that destiny laughs at your plans, not that quantum physics built a world on uncertainty. No. The cruelest joke is how much you ache inside it—without ever daring to say it.