Prose on the Idiotic Gods

Why is it that for millenia, those who immolate themselves in the putrid nest of a fake demiurgical tale, are praised as Saints and Enlightened? 

Whether it be on a selfless redemption bout
Or in a deranged feast of egoes and flesh,
Fundamentally sticking to that which bounds us
In a fleshy, palpitating restrain,
Where there is never anything new.
Nobody to know.
Nothing to be.
For there cannot be a true freedom when simply being led into the same randomized set of insignificant and very limited expectations.

Even those who believe themselves to be beyond the grasp of the atrocious rituals of life, soon find themselves in a contiguous room, where the set of expectations has been inconsequentially expanded to show barely anything beyond of what the epitome of the Idiots in men can see, those who prefer to hide away in the laps of Pantheons and rites, where there actions are set by a merciful or merciless being, that who themselves could never be.

As life is the antipode of Order, as every new being or accumulation of light matter fights back against the purity of Chaos, the delightful silence of nothing, a solution must be suggested, an idea to uproot life from its very source, to nick the quantum strings and let the primordial stasis of the universe unwind.

But what could that be?