Song Description

Entirely in 4/4, including the opening odd-feeling section, which divides oddly but counts out to 2 measures of 4/4.

Lyrics

There is but one question
And that is suicide
You always have the power
To choose if you will die
This is fundamental
To our philosophy
And the prime example
Of life's absurdity
Whether you live or die
You exist, then don't
What meaning you choose for
It is something you own
Your anxiety comes
From your fear of death
But equally your fear
Of what to do with yourself

I imagine
Sisyphus returns his rock
For all eternity
And he is satisfied.

What then is the point of
Continuing to live
If it is you who chooses
What its value is
You must choose the things that
Form your sense of meaning
No outside forces act
To give you your reasons
If we are to assume
That there is no god
This is how we must be
Assumed to respond
Satisfaction comes with
Acceptance of this fact
That we assign meaning
Just as we see it fit

We're the ones who choose
If we do believe in god
Or if what form of government
We have is what we want.
You could die a Luddite,
Denying all technology,
Having realized the inevitable tide
Has passed and set you free.
You realize your independence
Rests solely on your intent;
You sympathize with mad defendants
Of beliefs you now resent.
Their rigidity, you realize,
Is nothing but a simple case
Of clinging to ideas outdated
To establish a clear sense of personal place.

To each his own Platonic form,
Internalized, in certain terms,
And to each mind, the mental blind
To see it fully blurred.
That this abstraction, actualized
In actions based on bad intentions,
Is nothing more than failure to realize
The limit of the mind's extent.

Why does it always seem to me
Those who know least claim to know most
And have opinions without room
For debate or contemplation that they could be wrong.
Their logic weak, conviction strong,
Convinces me intelligence
Is recognition of your own stupidity
In an abstract, fact-based, worldly sense.

Existence precedes
The essence you attach,
Wound up in the weave
Of webs you have, in fact,
Spun solely for yourself
Made up of your view,
Imposed to hide your angst
From when you see their flaws in you.

Your need for order, then,
Derives from sublimation:
Hiding your flaws in those
Whom you meet,
And from your failure
To extract them,
To examine the findings,
And report what you see.

I imagine
Sisyphus returns his rock
For all eternity
And he is satisfied.