Yeah, I don't know--who does. The poem just struck me as nihilistic. If we are just star stuff in a forever bubbling and fomenting cauldron, it may be a view of

Yeah, I don't know--who does. The poem just struck me as nihilistic. If we are just star stuff in a forever bubbling and fomenting cauldron, it may be a view of reality that is hostile to life. What can console us against the slings and arrows of our outrageous existence if there is no substantial difference between us being dead or alive? If we are just a drop of goop in the cosmic cauldron, why should we not just kill ourselves when we face any discomforting challenge? Late for the bus? Kill yourself. Skipped over for promotion? Kill yourself. As a function of survival, we need some model of reality that helps us to continue living. And that means a model to help us justify suffering--essentially. I do not find such a model reflected by the poem in question; hence, I see it as an enemy to life--nihilistic.