WHAT IS THIS PLACE?
Newest-websites.com is an unsuccessful internet project by a digital nomad known by his many names on various internet platforms. You may know him (PROBABLY NOT) as a ruthless spammer and shitposters on Reddit where he goes by the name of publius-varus.
Existential dread made this story
I was on my coffee break time, in a coffee shop 100 meters away from my office, when it happened again.
While I was taking a sip of my coffee, just as I did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, I felt it.
I don't know what triggered it.
I just stared blankly at a coffee mug in my hand, knowing that same time tomorrow, I will be seating at this exact same seat, and the day after, and the day after… and that nothing really makes sense.
I remembered Camus and felt unease.
I was trying to remember exact words he used to describe this feeling of existential dread.
"Getting up, going to work, lunch break, going home, sleep, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday...“.
When I got back to the office, I disregarded my obligations and started googling „Myth of Sisyphus“.
„It happens that the stage sets collapse. Rising, street-car, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, street-car, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm—this path is easily followed most of the time. But one day the "why" arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement“.
I have read further.
„We live on the future: "tomorrow," "later on," "when you have made your way," "you will understand when you are old enough." Such irrelevancies are wonderful, for, after all, it' s a matter of dying. Yet a day comes when a man notices or says that he is thirty. Thus he asserts his youth. But simultaneously he situates himself in relation to time. He takes his place in it. He admits that he stands at a certain point on a curve that he acknowledges having to travel to its end. He belongs to time, and by the horror that seizes him, he recognizes his worst enemy. Tomorrow, he was longing for tomorrow, whereas everything in him ought to reject it. That revolt of the flesh is the absurd.“
I looked at my hands and, for no apparent reason, they looked wrinkled and old. My soul felt wrinkled and old.
There was something I couldn't grasp, so I read PDF file for the second time till I found a paragraph that was bugging me.
„Weariness comes at the end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the same time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. It awakens consciousness and provokes what follows. What follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the definitive awakening. At the end of the awakening comes, in time, the consequence: suicide or recovery“.
Yup, that was it.
Suicide or recovery.
Dying voluntarily by suicide, as he states, implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous character of the habit of living, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation, and the uselessness of suffering. Yes, I have, I felt meaningless and ridiculousness of my life, but then again I don't feel like killing myself. The body is too accustomed to living.
And I agree with him that the body' s judgment is as good as the mind's.
So what about recovery.
I didn't feel like reading the whole“ Myth“ again. I had a vague remembrance that Camus's explanation why is life worth living doesn't quite cut it for me.
I googled him some more.
“The literal meaning of life is whatever you're doing that prevents you from killing yourself.”
Good old anti-nihilistic Camus.
OK, that doesn't quite help me! Need something more concrete.
The dread followed me whole day, uselessness of circular motion of life troubled me.
While I was lying on the couch, staring at the whiteness of the wall, I asked myself what is the solution. Perhaps I should move to another country? Yup, whenever I ask myself, why I am doing what I am doing, first answer that pops to mind is money. You have to go to work day after day so you could make money, money for food, for drinks with friends, for a goddamn internet provider so you can spend your free afternoons reading goddamn Camus, and Bukowski, Nietzsche, Miller and Dostoevsky - all of those goddamn soul-poisoning heathens.
So, perhaps if a person would move to a country where a salary is bigger, perhaps in some conceivable timeline a man could make enough money to stop working, and then…
I remembered Bukowski.
„They never pay the slaves enough so they can get free, just enough so they can stay alive and come back to work.“ I remembered something else, something he wrote about his father working hard and never having enough money, as there was always something, new car to buy, better house…
No, if you really think about it, money is not the problem. It is not lack of money that makes a person to sit at the same seat in the bar every fucking day.
It is not a lack of money that holding you back from parasailing or bungee jumping.
Perhaps, „fucking“ is the answer.
I remembered Bukowski's short story how he looked at ducks in the park and wanted to be a duck, as they seemed without a worry in the world. Then he fucked a couple of girls and said something like „Fuck ducks.“
Perhaps, I should pull out nice shirt out of the closet, spray on some perfume and go pussy-hunting.
Noup, the dread is not that strong to do somethings so out of my character.
Perhaps I should text a girl I used to know. Noup, that with be cruel.
The deal with love is that butterflies in stomach eventually die out. The „spark“, the craziness always withers away, and you are left with the same circular motion – just this time in two - and love at the end doesn't kill existential dread - it can coexist with it.
Perhaps, playing Candy Crush can help. To fight meaninglessness with most meaningles game in history - there is something ironic about it.
I didn't play Candy Crush, I wrote this „About me“post.
Thing with existential dread is that you can choose to be Don Quijote.
Even though you understand the tragedy, you can charge at the windmills – even though, unlike Don Quijote, you know that they are just windmills, not giants.
And the windmills in this case are the small stuff in life, and a person can, despite realisation of meaninglessness of life, find satisfaction at the absurdity in this fight against the windmills.
If you have read this far, I have nothing more to say, perhaps go and play murder mystery game (you can find it on the menu on the top of your screen) as it gives me great pleasure to see someone is online on this God forsaken site (I know, I am weird).