If You Give a Mouse a Scone

If you give a mouse a scone, he’s probably going to ask for a cup of tea.

And if you give a mouse a cup of tea, he’s probably going to ask for a lump of sugar.

The mouse gorges itself on sweets to escape the crushing weight of Existential dread that hovers over him like a dark cloud. He struggles with the duality of his own apathy and knowing that it is impossible to exist without passion.

The mouse feels as if it were a piece in a game of chess, when his opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved.

Where am I? Who am I? How did I come to be here? What is this thing called the world? How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted?

What if everything in the world were a misunderstanding? What if laughter were really tears?

The world has generally no understanding of what is truly horrifying. The despair that not only does not cause any inconvenience in life, but makes life convenient and comfortable, is naturally enough in no way regarded as despair.

Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth; look at the dying man’s struggle at his last extremity, and then tell the mouse whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.

The most painful state of being is remembering the future—particularly the one you’ll never have. What if this scone is the last happiness the mouse shall ever know?

The mouse’s depression is the most faithful mistress he has ever known. No wonder, then, that he returns the love.

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards. Truly, anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.

…

“FUUUUUUUUUUCK!”