The art of existence

Kierkegaard, Sartre, Camus, Unamuno… surnames that seem invented, ideas that twist around each other like snakes in a caduceus. Intellectuals, philosophers, essayists, professors, men flesh and blood with something to say.

Repeating, unfolding like a note in the rain, to discover in its depths the reason that brought us to this place. Because any vermin can crawl until it finds a door San Pedro, but we have the weight of the knowledge that we are heading towards the grave and that it, like everything around us, is meaningless.

Why, Lord, did you put the burden on me to know that I don’t know what to do?” someone will shout when he sees it the lack of reason, the lack of reason with which they brought us this country. But who told us it made sense, who lied to us like that?

Yourself. Ability to reason What we have may lead us to a false conclusion, a false reality that satisfies our desire for a task, but in this universe nothing has a reason to exist, nothing is set in stone, the truths we believe to be eternal are distorted and evolve with As time passes, the sand returns to the desert to blow it up again, and the water returns to the stormy sea to wash it out again blurred heads of society, Nothing is static, much less eternal.

Life has no meaning, yes, but that, so rough and hard, is the only certainty with which we work. “The effort to reach heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.” It is so obvious, it is so clear, we are prisoners of ourselves. We get depressed, we get angry, we scream, cry and sob because the utopia in which our mind rests is not, nor will it ever resemble the world in which we live.

Sisyphus, mocked, humiliated and condemned Repeating the divine sentence in vain, he discovers that he does not have to be discouraged, because the condemnation in which he finds himself is nothing but a gift to his own conscience. It is true that the plot is simplified when we separate the ideas that wander in our skulls from those phrases that the masses experience and that have no value.

Our mission as conscious beings of being is to discover the recurring emptiness that occupies us and fill it with what comforts us. Existentialism, what the Editorial Board of Literature Moscow’s policy called “a reflection of the crisis of bourgeois liberalism”, is not a trend, nor a lifestyle, as they call it now, but an answer to an old question. If we remove the blindfold from the obligatory nature of meaning, life takes on a different color, changes and adapts to support a reality that lacks content, but not reasons for living. And we can begin to see examples of existence beyond essence around every corner.

We are here because we think and still live. We are here for no reason and no greater goal than what we have set ourselves, and that, as simple as it is, is liberating. We live alone, let’s roll the stone one more time, but satisfaction in the heart, because this task, frivolous and insignificant, is a reaffirmation of the life that continues to be lived. Let fools dry their eyes looking at the Sun, let them confirm their stupidity with vain actions. At the end, they will watch the stone roll down the hill. Let them rot in the obscene mire of ignorance and rejoice in the knowledge that meaning is the reason for our life It depends solely on us.