New Stuff

Meaninglessness is all there is, we are engulfed in blackness of night.
Death is in our future, our life is sure to end.
There is no book to set us straight, though many have been written.
The heavens are silent, no voice above is heard.

Somehow a world is here, we are sure that we exist.
The sky is full of stars, galaxies without number.
The earth is full of life, creatures large and small.
Our bodies are a marvel, our minds a mystery.

I feel new stuff in my bones, my blood flows through my brain.
If I'm a simulation, predetermined by a program:
Still I think and feel and am, surely a miracle.
I exult to my programmer, "Hear me shout, hear me, see me, I am."

New stuff.
Carve your ideas into the wood-
Leave your knife stuck in the tree-
Perchance someone in future will find it and carve marvelous things.
You can always buy a new knife in the city.

The future is the meaning, the meaning is to be created.
I curse the meaningless night. Let this be my epitaph,

"He came forth from the void."