Puppies

I think people think I’m cute.

Not physically.

I think that most people, when they hear what I say and understand what I believe, think of me as a cute little college kid playing wading into the morbid shallows of nihilism for a few moments before coming back to the real world.

I hope they’re right. I don't really like this.

The other most likely option is that I’m really fucking crazy, right? People don’t live in the absence of hope and meaning, do they? Maybe they do in the five seconds they spend writhing on the ground before death, but not while they still have a chance at life.

I have a hard time convincing people that I’m serious. My thoughts aren’t the result of long intellectual study. I haven’t lifted something from a Nietzsche 101 textbook. This is what I see. At least, this is what I think I see.

It’s part of the reason I’m not too keen on what has now been labeled “philosophy,” which nowadays amounts to stuffy professors spouting off pseudo-intellectual bullshit.

I see this stuff. I see Camus’ absurdity in the world. I see and hear everyday people struggle to rationalize their existence against the cold backdrop of an unfeeling universe. Believing that we’re all just making everything up is the only explanation for the society and culture and everything “human” about the universe that makes sense to me.

Of course it could all just be another abstraction I’ve created in my head and then projected onto the world around me, but that would only prove my point.