…and other pseudo-existential crises.
“Alright, I’m all out of fucks to give for today. I’m going to go and read some Sartre.”
No sooner had the words left my mouth that new ones were spilling out to form an apology for how incredibly pretentious and French the former sounded.
Sometimes, there’s just no avoiding it; there’s no dodging the cliché bullet. I understand not everybody will match their beret with a striped shirt to ride their bicycle to the market for some bread and cheese, but when you’re taught the proper ways to fetch your daily carbs as soon as you’ve exited the birth canal, it’s hard to shake the habit off. Stereotypes exist for a reason, you know?
That being said, the past few weeks have been tough. So I dealt with the angst the best way I know how: question everything, just as we were taught in grade 10 philosophy class.
A couple of days ago I spent lunch at a really busy and noisy joint with a couple of people from work. They found a table tucked away in a corner and proceeded to chat about wrapping things up and moving on to their new gigs. It was at that moment that I realised that being lonely had nothing to do with the number of people around you, but rather the number of people who understand you. And right then, I felt, really, really lonely.
I am, however, finally running out of fucks to give. I’ve run out of questions, found absolutely no real answers, and am left looking for a conclusion. What I do know is this: people will come and go. Some are cigarette breaks, others will burn like forest fires. And I was never surer that hell is other people, because I would be nothing of who I am without them, and sometimes that is the worst part of being. In the words of Minor Threat: thanks a lot, friends.