All philosophy is futile; all language, deception and were it not that we find ourselves lashed to the mast of this listless human endeavour in knowledge and technology, we should hardly know or be anything much at all. Philosophy seeks to explain with words that which must remain constitutively inexplicable. There falling inevitably backwards upon, through and as itself into confusions, tautologies and the thousand redundant self-inflections of a species hardly even able to acknowledge that all it can ever know is the language with which it seeks knowledge, it generates the endlessly self-validating tautologies of dissimulated certainty.
It might not matter all that much for the majority of us who spend most of our days and nights engaged in hapless Greco-Roman wrestling matches with the confusions our own systems of belief tend to invoke, but the fact remains: the only place we ever obtain closure and certainty is in and as the abstract simulation of them. Surely it would not matter so much if all we ever did was invent relatively self-consistent fictions and proceed to inhabit them as though pleasing transient sandcastles of cultural peculiarity that we somehow take to be eternal, but it does matter.
It matters precisely because the narrative fictions we assert as real more closely resemble the manifest projections of an insecure species that has wrapped them as though blankets of certainty and purpose around their short and fragile little lives. So, it is all essentially and irredeemably meaningless and all systems of belief (including this one!) are effectively fictional.
Philosophy is futile and language is hollow, but move along now, if you stop here too long you might discover that you, too, have quite simply never existed in the ways you thought you did. All that ever existed were the pathological self-descriptions through which language invented you.
Yes, me too. Have a nice day.