Nietzsche's Niche
A Message From the Author:
In case the title did not enlighten you, I am Friedrich “Everything is Pointless” Nietzsche, renowned German philosopher, and mustache enthusiast. You may be wondering how this is possible, as I am veritably dead. While I most certainly was deceased, I have returned from the void of the universe to dispense my wise words of wisdom to the unfortunate. That would be you, my dear reader. So please, ask me anything, as I apparently have all of time to answer questions.
I would tell you to enjoy my lessons, but as we all know, joy is an illusion.
~~~
Dear Nietzsche,
I’m having an existential crisis. Please help.
Garett
Dear Garett,
My dearest Garett, I am so very proud of you. You have attained what so few have been able to in all of recorded history. You have begun to see the cracks in the walls that are human perception. I envy you, truly, to look at the universe with fresh eyes. Embrace your confusion, as it will serve to embolden your understanding of everything. I implore you, question everything. Who is to say what is real and what is imagination besides you?
(P.S. Nothing is real, and nothing is everything, hope that helps)
~~~
Dear Nietzsche,
Why are you so mean? Gosh.
Tallulah
Dear Rachel,
Your name is terrible, so I have decided to fix that. How so many of the youngsters in this era have such gauche names is beyond me. This epidemic must be remedied swiftly. To answer your question, Rachel, I am harsh towards your breed of people because I believe it is my duty to galvanize the minds to cast aside their preconceived notions and ideals in favor of a completely new variety of thought.
~~~
Dear Nietzsche,
I hate everythingggg. My friends tell me that I’m way too pessimistic. How can I be happier when everything sucks???
Daniel
(P.S. Did you get the fanmail I sent you? You’re awesome.)
Dear Daniel,
I do not know what “fanmail” is, but I’m assuming you are referring to the parcel that I received, and with my name poorly scrawled in crayon at that. Inside was a crude effigy of my visage, along with a pencil (as if I would be so Plebeian) and a box of chocolate. I will not make any claims to be pleased by this. Food brings me no joy, only nourishment, and you have failed to provide me with adequate nutrition, so I can only assume you were attempting to poison me. I will have you know, as a cruel twist of irony, I am incapable of death, so long as I respond to your worthless “questions.”