The Disintegration of Replication

        Both Reuters and the Associated Press are reporting that we seem to be little more than an imperfect system of replication, exalted by half a lifetime of vigorous growth and exploration only to spend an interminable evening slowly breaking apart, pining away and wondering why. Life is a slavishly constructed pyramid reaching for the heavens, briefly and brilliantly awed by it's proud creators in the fleeting moments before deconstruction begins. With all accounts of an afterlife, of a soular-continuence, dribbled from the zealous rantings of fanatics, the hazy accounts of shamanic wanderers or the thousands of regurgitated, stylized walks through typical and tenuous tunnels of light, we humans are forced to consider our existence as little more than a cosmic experiment; cruel, calculated, chaotic and far from completion. Our brains are inconceivably complex bio-electric thought machines that, given the time, are capable of understanding the depths of space, the flexibility of time and the equally complex subtleties of love and communication. What a shame it is that this same device starts to break, slow, sputter and decay long before it even considers it's own unimaginable potential. The joy of family, the pride of a difficult and rewarding life's work, even the infinite dreams that form the latticework of hope and reason all vanish as replication begins to rust and crumble, vigorously morphing into decay and disintegration. It is of little wonder that apathy bleakly  squirms beneath the very flesh of modern humanity and, logically, it should come as no surprise that the period at the end of the sentence is, under careful observation, actually a 40mg Paxil. 

If, like the ominous warnings of certain death plastered on cigarette packs, anti-depressants, mood stabilizers and their ilk came stamped, not with a warning, but with a detailed account of their terrible necessity, would the medicated multitudes take pause? Or, if given the above words to masticate before chemical consumption, would the opiated world just double the dose and, through the hazy eyes of the side-affected, vomit them out out as tears of shattered information slowly pooling at their feet…slowly coalescing into the pockmarked face and empty eye sockets of a long dead and overdosed God. 

       Perhaps if we chose to embrace our fear of the unknown and the inevitable, play with it like a children's toy and eventually discard it like those fluffy stuffed friends who's importance fades with growth and education, we could flush the pills and slaughter the psychiatrists on our brave, unstoppable march towards beautiful infinity. Could we ride the curves of the oncoming question mark to the holographic lands where depression, sadness and suicide become nothing but insignificant scores awarded in our new and impossible scrabble game.

-Roxbury (Direct Responses are welcome at patrick.roxbury@gmail.com)