FUTILITY AS A DOORWAY

We are conditioned to avoid the feeling of futility.
It threatens everything we build our identity upon—
the striving, the stories, the sense that we're going somewhere.

To feel futility is to touch the edge of despair.
But what if that's exactly the point?
What if futility is not the end,
but the undoing of false beginnings?

It takes courage to face the void
without scrambling to fill it.
To let the hollow echo
without rushing to rebuild the walls.

But in the wake of that crumbling,
something unexpected appears.
Not hope.
Not meaning.
Not purpose in the old sense.

Just this.
Awareness.
Presence.
Action without a self behind it.

Futility doesn’t kill life.
It kills illusion.

And from that death,
something real can live.

_______________________

A POEM.

A word that conjures despair—
bleakness,
pointlessness.

Or perhaps
a word that invites inquiry—
a crack in the shell
of meaning and self,
an opening
to the bones
of the ego’s illusion.

What remains
when that structure falls?

Awareness.
Selfless action.
Presence.