Absurdly

Camus speaks in ‘Enigma’ about people’s characters, these masks with which we face the uncertainty of a society that does not know where to go. Defense mechanisms, the walls of our true essence. That fragile form of our life, the feverish polarity that hides behind our eyes.

We use masks as a shield, a barrier that prevents external attention from rusting shining armor which we see located within ourselves. Masks, like our unconsciousness, are defensive materials, the trenches of our mental castle. We have facets, characters as Camus called them, which we are not even aware of, but we use them every day.

Because where is the absurdity of the world? Hidden in the warm golden rays that fall like thunder from the sky, perhaps. Mystique man’s absolute A reasonable man exhumes the certainty of his actions, because, although he himself does not know what he longs for, for what illuminates his dreams and gives warmth to his fire, a reasonable man knows that he is searching and that he is not part of what moves him in your search. And then a thousand voices are raised to point out the losses concepts of failed investigationselements that are neither nor similar to what drives man’s research.

And this is where they come into dispute masks, characters. That pair of characters, according to Camus’s friend, are the characters of the man himself and his wife, Camus changes it for society, which in the end remains the same. And it is precisely this last, the character of society, forged in the fire of indiscreet opinions and cheap gossip, that is the most dangerous to look for. Because the enigma is not answered by external judgments, but by the silence of the meadow of the soul. And what then, will we continue to ask and let them say what they want?

Of course, we answers Camus. Because the only certainty is to find what you long for, even if you don’t know exactly what material it is made of and what shape it is. But in this society of guillotines, little can be done against public pressure, against the invisible hand of sentiment trading. We are orphans of common sense and widows of seeking. We have no way to face the altered reality, corrupted by the misfortune of others.

The masks work against the angry and quarrelsome Leviathan who hates those who dare individualize your decisions. He tries to break them with prejudices, manipulate and force them.

But you can only maintain composure, wait, as Camus saysto be known – and forgotten – not for who we are, but for the image some hasty journalist painted of us.

Because the beast machines are huge and since oblivion is very cold, we tend to follow the directions of those who neither stab nor snarl at the table of our heads.

And the question is repeated, repeated again and again in the absurdity of this whole situation, where is itnonsense of the world? Among the weeds growing between the sidewalks or behind the rotting leaves coming down the stream.

A fortress is built little by little, block by block, and even if an earthquake shakes the foundations, the work of protecting the fractured being of our person should not prevent us from being vigilant in our constant search. We are made up of the actions we take, the movements, conscious or unconscious, that our presence makes, the ideas we express, the struggles we wage or the milestones we overcome; we are a living legend of our own history and that is something Leviathan will never have.