Absurdism, or some shit

“You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.”- Albert Camus

Our conscious collective, or collective unconscious (depending on how much Jung you are willing to concede to), has been polluted by itself, by ourselves, by the culture and society we have created and continue to strive towards. Omega is getting more distant, more fractured. It is obvious Western man’s system of perceived success and obligatory happiness and career and churchgoing and the drive to push our kids past ourselves is not functional; neuroses and terror and fear are abounding. Very few people are truly happy, if at all even satisfied. Most lock three or four sets of doors between themselves and their lawns manicured by men they’ve never spoken to.

Where has our happiness vanished to? It has fled and scurried and burrowed into cinderblock cracks within the space of our minds that is constantly demolished and reconstructed by thoughts on what life is, what it means, and why we are in it. The search for a grand equation, a meta-equalizer, is one end of a potentially destructive spectrum, for at the same time we cannot accept ignorance at the immediate levels of our human being. The bliss of ignorance is only a tribal mask for the permanent death, the REMless coma Satan spins us in. We must find our center and clear the sweat from our bow’s that we spill over concerning grand processes while staying vigilant to avoid complete obliviousness towards the most fundamental of our interactions.

It is often the case when we examine the mess of things around us and how to fix them at meta levels, the more we bring ourselves away from the immediate challenge of reconciling our actions with the undeniable fact that death will render all of us null and void.  Camus could be accused of being hedonistic, to be sure, but it his approach is practical. And healthy. It tells the depressed man to stop wallowing in his depression, trying to analyze it and surrender it to microscopy, each realm of his being another slide. Stop, and be. Embrace the transience, explore and breathe in each moment. It tells the teleological-ly obsessive compulsive poet to take a day off. To give up the search and allow the illusion to show itself, and to enjoy the picture.

Questioning everything will only lead to more questions; acceptance will lead to peace. Acceptance, however, is not passive resistance; it is identifying the borders of one’s influence and then militarizing up to each one of them. It is working within and through oneself in accordance with how the universe would have us do so. We have all been equipped with the right instruments to tell if we are doing a good job at this, and they reside for the most part in our guts.

Absurdism is not finding pleasure amongst the concertos of meaningless rabble, argument for its own sake. It is not chastising those who seek the hangman behind life’s noose. It is finding the humor in a shirt stain; figuring out that “god” usually works in three’s. It is appreciating that we can have hope within us, if not now then in the near future, and acknowledging it at its most basic level of life giving essentiality. It is beautiful to exist; sum ergo speciosus. The immediacy of our own lives needs to be the concrete that mold us together. The dawn is drawing and we must smile as the cave is illuminated.

The Absurdism Camus explains to us is that which I speak of now to you: attempting to make sense of any of it. He wants us to enjoy, taking things in stride and being practical, and to live fully within ourselves. None of us are meant to be creator’s of anything. We are transmitters at best. But it does not render the whole dog and pony show unimportant and unworthy of emotional connection, because it is absurd not to think that the billions of cells working in unison and conjunction to keep us slobbering down Happy Meals are doing so by chance. It is absurd to think that the nightly fuckings of your parents propelled you outwards into this incident by accident. And their parent’s theirs. Assuming the pyramids are a natural byproduct of the universe’s mechanisms. Dismissing the Friday drive to work, the one where an exploding blood red Cardinal flew in front of your windshield for the third day in a row, the same day your grandmother passes to the other side, that is absurd.

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