While Camus, the existential master, might have wrestled throughout his life to defeat nihilism, to find some affirming quality about life; there is something really appealing and persuasive about it. It crushes hope, shreds it, till the infinitesimal shards dissolve into the pristine, virgin black nothingness. It awes and overawes. It provokes the parched intellect, exaggerates human folly, faith and ambition, exposes the darkness of man and man’s heart, the selfishness, the desire, the cheapness, the crassness, the culpability, the dishonesty, the subterfuge, the foolishness. The parody of a man imitating man imitating man.
When the bard observed that we are all actors he wasn’t merely talking about the seven ages. It is the cunning mind that interprets it only that way. The fact is every bastard is an actor. Every man is a bastard. And I just misplaced the order because I am one too. Did you notice how I talked to you? And I wonder how you would retort. Do I care? The monstrosity of this visceral hurt, the stabs of conceited conversation that we dish out to each other in an exercise to stay civilised; that is the most sadomasochistic act of all, living. Breathing is difficult too. How did you tune yourself to repeat such a laborious process once in two seconds? Just stop for a moment and think about it. When focused on breathing, I can’t even pull myself to do anything. But you have managed to push this realisation to some recess of your mind in an attempt, a mad rush, to pursue something more worthwhile. How is anything that you achieve more worthwhile than anything else? You breathe, you eat, you sleep. Sometimes you fuck. To do all this, you work. Rinse, repeat. So you are just living. I am sorry, you just exist. You are like the speck of dust. You exist. It exists longer than you do. So who are you trying to outlive?
If there is anything that emerges out of this prism of nihilism, this patina of glorious purposelessness, I am willing to cradle it, embrace it and nurture it. Something tells me nothing will.