Читать книгу A Day in the City - Mikko Soiniemi - Страница 12

Once upon a time there was a man who said he didn't believe in anything he could not prove to exist. He lived his life being happy because everything he ever saw he knew was really there. When he walked down the street, he knew that the people in the street really existed, that the concrete he was walking on was really there, that the sky and the clouds above him were there and you could prove it. His whole life was centered on the idea that he knew what exists and why and how, because in the end everything was perfectly logical and all a matter of science. His life was well-ordered, because whatever happened to him had an explanation, everything had its sense. Even the bad things that he encountered in his life were always just the result of something that made sense. If somebody he was close to left him, it was just logical because people go their own way. If somebody did not like him, it was logical because they did not match up in their personality and their pheromone smell did not mix well. If somebody died, it was logical because humans have a limited life span, their functions cease, their life ends. They turn into compost and become part of the cycle again. He acknowledged the fact that there was no higher power in this world, that the world itself was the power. The system was the only thing that existed and it only existed because of the people in it. Everything had its place and purpose, not in a moral but logical sense. Action and reaction, life was nothing but a constant scientific experiment.

And when the day came that he was about to die, he thought about his life. He thought about the things that made him happy, he thought about the things that made him sad. He remembered the women he loved, the people he cheated. The people he helped and the people he didn't even notice.

And when he closed his eyes for the last time and knew that this was also just part of the equation, that it was nothing but a biological reaction that would end his existence he was not sad, just empty.