The void of existence exists only to better fill it. I continue my reading of Existentialism for Dummies, a book that is very well written. I am ambivalent, wondering if existentialist thought feeds me or gnaws at me because I am naturally anxious, even depressive. Whatever people say about my talents, my chances of success, the happiness that surrounds me, my comfort is relative, beautiful as slow and heavy snow that soothes the eyes, softens the air. Beautiful as winter kills.
Yet existentialism is not a philosophy of despair even if, at first, the observation is implacable: life is absurd, because, regardless of beliefs, the universe seems to be making fun of our individual fate. Nietzsche declared that God was dead (since he never kept his promise, with lies that are repeated from generation to generation). Man must, therefore, surpass himself to become a superman. But again, this is absurd. The superman will die.
However, life is given to us. We are alive and the only true courage is to live it because that is simply the way it is. “It is.” Heidegger seems to be saying that this is enough and that we are what we are because we are. Sort of. Existential thought seems circular to me, just as God’s thought was.
In fact, it is the nature of the human mind to dream in circles. It is in itself a miracle that probably exists in millions of copies in this universe that has no end and yet, as we say, it too will die and start again.
The knowledge we have of our reality, and of the smallness of our boat, can only bring us back to humility over and over again. Thus, the existential gesture of declaring everything absurd is courage and abandonment. We are and that is enough. My reality is to push these words through this computer that others have imagined. I am of my own kind. When I die, the wind will blow on the dust that I will become. My species, too, will be dissolved one of these days, the universe is so patient, in the water of nothingness. We are, we will become, we will remain salt, the one that gives a certain flavor to the nebulae.
We are the condiment for a “thing” that doesn’t really seem to taste what it is. But what the hell do I know? Nothing. That is probably the answer. And this conclusion goes in circles, passes the time.