There are days when you cant help but feel that the existentialists are right. As much as you might despise their nuveu-arrogance and abject hopelessness, you also have to acknowledge that sometimes you, too, want to call out the big pink bullshit elephant in the room. Does work really matter? Are accomplishments anything more than temporary comfort? The asshole rigamaroll can get a little--or a lot--dry, and at the end of the day, when your feet are up on the coffee table and youre watching wolf blitzer decry civilian casualties, its very tempting to ask, who really gives a fuck? and, most importantly, is this even real?
There is a part in Camuss The Stranger in which the protagonist is having sex with his pseudo-girlfriend (was Camille her name? I dont remember), and the only sensation he registers is physical pleasure. He is completely devoid of emotional connection, both internally and externally, but, interestingly, he does not care. Call it an organic by-product of being emotionless, but apathy is his greatest weapon. In fact, even when he finds himself on death row, he remarks that his only real hope is that an angry mob shows at his execution. You know what my reaction was? Balls. That guy has a huge brass pair of balls.
What he realized, and what Camus was telling the rest of us, is that we are all microcosmic emblems of how the world works. The world is within us, around us, and a part of us, and we mirror its presence. Those thing that are physically, tangibly present are what we have to go on. Were short on conciousness, since all we know is what we see. Computer programmers know thats true--theyre all certifiable adherents to the computer term WYSIWYG---What You See Is What You Get.
It definitely makes me mad to think about the possibility that everything is meaningless. But, as my friend said, maybe were all just a bag of chemicals. I dont think hes quite right, because theres nothing chemical about hope, freedom, or ambition, but maybe, even if we have a soul, and even if God exists, and even if He put us here, and even if there is a true religion, and even if you observe it, maybe it all means absolutely zero.
Those are the days when your computer is broken, you spill your coffee, and you have to cancel plans for that night because something came up. And, as you're rationalizing your happy façade, you come to realize that theres no such thing as a façade. What you see is what you get. If you act happy, then people think you're happy, and when those people talk about you to other people, they convey how happy you are. And, voila, youre happy, definitively happy. Publicly and overtly quantified as such. That is the absolute epitome of existentialism: its all meaningless, fake is real and real doesnt exist, and what's left is scorched earth and smiling faces.
What a fucking shitty day. I need a xanax.
Stay classy san diego,
Ps: mc pharmacy is a pretty good moniker. No one steal it, please.