Video games are perhaps a real means of cracking through reality which I like to think of as resembling an eggshell, only finely painted. That reality is really that fragile really ought not to be doubted: death gives us ample evidence to believe so. Either we become nothing, or our soul carries us somewhere else, yes? That's what Plato thought anyway, but in either case reality is shattered. Reflections of this sort lead me to hope that my present form of existence is actually a game also. That perhaps I am actually a famous historical figure of the past whose expirences I am now living, as though they were mine and with no knowledge of any disparity, with the aid of some super advanced mind-and-body-overwhelming game system.
But such is mere fantasy and really doesn't help anyway. For I must still die, no matter how many times I play the game; that is, how many different lives I am programmed to live. We could talk about the philosophical implications of such a possiblity, but in fact there are none. True philosophy, that which occurs under staircases and in broom closets, where angels live as dust and balls of twine, has already taught itself to be silent. Sadly mind you--the lesson was full of anger historically, and you would yell too if, after so many years, you discovered you were mute--but now only sadly. And the excited still do philosophy in the light, but they seem only to be adults who have decided to be children because it is easier.
The artist is the real grown-up. For the first time maybe has he the true raw power of the philosopher; he may be naked and still evil, hold out his fist with fire reflected in his eye and actually mean it in some important way. But this power is reversed, or negative: it comes not from above or behind things, but rather it belongs to the bones of the philosopher: to his words that he has sworn no longer to speak, that is, to his unspoken words. The artists' power then is no longer the power to redeem, but indeed the last vomit-green rays of human truth. A scourge demanding that mankind yield!
On the bright side, there is no mankind, and therefore no artist with the will to this power. What remains seems to be the slow forgetting: the soup of culture has run dry and we're not hungry anymore, it did taste good at the time, but with full bellies that delight is forgotten. Like the squirrel who ate bubble-gum, we'll starve to death fully satiated. And it will take so long that on our deathbed we will have forgotten that we ate anything at all.
The analogies are all breaking down now: the squirrel might now explore his world, no longer consumed with hunger. But our soup was our exploration, and yet in reality we would still explore if we could; we are therefore satiated only because we must be and we forget only because we die.