Existential Despair?

Fear? If I have gained anything by damning myself, it is that I no longer have anything to fear.

 -Jean-Paul Sartre

Existentialism has often been looked at as a doctrine of despair, as it despises and even ridicules man's attempts to find comfort and safety in a cruel and unforgiving world. For those unfamiliar with what existentialism is in the first place, here is a short-hand form of the definition from our friends at wikipedia:

In existentialism, the individual's starting point is characterized by what has been called "the existential attitude", or a sense of disorientation and confusion in the face of an apparently meaningless or absurd world. Put simply, existentialism is the realization that life is pointless, your ambitions and dreams are (mostly) pointless, human interactions are pointless, etc. For many people, the spectre of existential despair rears its ugly head during the phase of early adulthood and generally fucks with your sense of self-worth and your relationship with not just the world, but with yourself. 

 

Even Gerard Butler gets depressed sometimes.

 

The spectre of existential despair shadows your actions with a nagging feeling that nothing you do will ever truly matter because, after all, there are 7 billion other humans that have been granted a life much like yours but under profoundly different circumstances. Who are you to try and make a name for yourself? Who are you to succeed when so many others have failed? Questions like these rip and tear at the psyche, making you truly question what you're all about, and if you have the gall to face down the abyssal chasm that existential despair creates within your heart. To live with the knowledge and acceptance that you, as a human, are infinitesimally small, absolutely miniscule in the grand scheme of things, requires a deep level of confidence and assurance about yourself; you have to be sure of yourself and your actions, and you have to always be aware of the repercussions and consequences your actions, intended or otherwise. This is by no means an easy task to accomplish, and you would be hard-pressed to find someone that can do this at all times. In short, you have to be a little like this guy:

 

Just kidding.

 

There is an upside to existentialism, believe it or not. Even though existential despair is a crushing, even debilitating realization, there is hope. In his defense of existentialism, a lecture entitled "Existentialism is a Humanism", Sartre states, "Thus, the first effect of existentialism is that it puts every man in possession of himself as he is, and places the entire responsibility for his existence squarely upon his own shoulders". Here Sartre gives a poignant and yet simplistic summation of his belief  in Man, that we are free to craft any destiny we desire. Responsibility, not only for yourself, but for all of Mankind, is what Sartre is referring to when he speaks of existentialism. You are totally and completely responsible for the actions you take in your life, and in taking action and making decisions you are also interacting in a world full of people who are also responsible for their actions. For example, if you decide to marry, not only are you deliberately making a decision in your life, but your decision affects the lives of your future bride, her family, her friends, etc. You are in complete control over your decisions at all times, even if your life, in the end, accounts for nothing more than a passing glance from some stranger as you board the subway train and flit out of their existence forever.

 

This feeling of responsibility, however, is what causes the anxiety present in the people that feel they are trapped in the bottomless pit of existential despair. This suffering, which is indeed the burden of all humanity, can be defined using three terms borrowed from Sartre: anguish, abandonment, and despair. Anguish is the inescapable responsibility of being, of existing. As we exist, we also perpetually decide for ourselves what our life will be like. Anguish is the realization that you and you alone are held accountable for your actions because what you decide has the potential to affect many people. In the same lecture, Sartre provides a vivid example of anguish at work:

 "It is anguish pure and simple, of the kind well known to all those who have borne responsibilities. When, for instance, a military leader takes upon himself the responsibility for an attack and sends a number of men to their death, he chooses to do it and at bottom he alone chooses. No doubt under a higher command, but its orders, which are more general, require interpretation by him and upon that interpretation depends the life of ten, fourteen or twenty men. In making the decision, he cannot but feel a certain anguish."

 

Anguish is but one aspect of suffering that existentialism highlights. Abandonment is the notion that God has well and truly sodded off, leaving us poor humans to travail this life without His intervention on our behalf. Obviously, this only applies whether or not you buy into the belief in God at all, and that is a whole 'nother can of worms altogether. In the absence of God, morality becomes an issue, for who can say in this fucked up world what is right and what is wrong? Again, Man becomes aware of his responsibility to himself, and must act in a way consistent with his responsibility to the rest of humanity lest he fall into the chasm of immorality. You alone are responsible for your actions, and if you choose to be a wicked human you do so with the knowledge that bad juju will definitely be heading your way. 

 

*shudders*

 

Despair constitutes the last element of human suffering, which has been discussed quite extensively thus far. When you combine the anguish of responsibility with the knowledge that we are alone in the universe, despair is a pretty likely outcome. There is no escape from this overwhelming truth, and it is here that humanity splits in its interpretation of existentialism. There are those that truly despair over this knowledge and yet do nothing to alleviate their situation because they are afraid of taking complete responsibility for themselves. This leads to various forms of escapism, excuse-making, and so forth. The man who flees from his responsibilities is a coward, and makes for himself the life of a coward. 

On the other side of the spectrum are the people that embrace their responsibilities and take great care to make for themselves a life worth living. That is not to say they are exempt from suffering; no human is exempt from suffering. But these men bear their burdens with pride, with dignity, and live their lives with the knowledge that even though they occupy such a small amount of space in this universe, they are nonetheless important to the people in their lives. These are men that do not flee in fear of their responsibilities, but instead place the utmost importance to their decisions so as to further their own lot in life. These are men that do not see their actions as futile or pointless, and know within themselves that despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, they do matter. There is merit yet in their existence because of their steadfast dedication to whatever cause inhabits their lives. In other words, purpose drives the existentialist--purpose that is entirely self-created and self-mediated. And purpose can literally be anything so long as it gives your life meaning and some degree of happiness: marriage, children, a prosperous career, money, etc. This is the antithesis to the existentialist despair, and this is how it can be combated. Find purpose within your life, and take up your responsibilities with dignity. 

Sartre concludes his eloquent defense of existentialism by saying that its aim is not to plunge man into abject despair, but rather to liberate and exonerate him by showing him the tools by which he can create meaning for himself in a world that is oftentimes tormented by chaos and turmoil. He says, "Existentialism is nothing else but an attempt to draw the full conclusions from a consistently atheistic position. Its intention is not in the least that of plunging men into despair...In this sense existentialism is optimistic. It is a doctrine of action, and it is only by self-deception, by confining their own despair with ours that Christians can describe us as without hope". And with this I leave you, the reader, to ponder your own existence and decide for yourself whether you are the kind of person that makes excuses or takes responsibility for yourself. 

 

Sources: 

Sartre, Jean-Paul. "Existentialism is a Humanism". Existentialism from Dostoyevsky to Sartre, ed. Walter Kaufman, Meridian Publishing Company, 1989;

Wikipedia page on Existentialism: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Existentialism

Stress Reduction

The secret to happiness is to take comfort in the little things, to be able to draw joy from simplicity, to not let the stress of modern life overwhelm the sense and engulf the individual, plunging him into a chasm of existential despair. For life is madness insofar as it is suffering as well. To find a perpetual sanctuary against despair, one must embrace the joy that arises from small acts of kindness; fulfilling these seemingly innocuous deeds will inevitably lead to a more fulfilled individual. Some examples include, but are not limited to: smiling more. Behaving politely. Returning favors. Performing favors. Practicing altruism. Enjoying music. Singing loudly, no matter who hears. Take advantage of every opportunity that comes your way, because some opportunities only come once in a lifetime. All of these actions, as well as many more I have not listed, go a long way towards realizing a more harmonious way of living. Giving perpetual thanks for all the things in your life, as well as acknowledging how easily material wealth can be displaced, also goes a long way towards developing and maintaining a healthy amount of modesty. No one likes a cocky show-off, no matter how skilled he may be. The equally talented but more modest individual will always receive more attention and praise 9 times out of 10. Live and behave modestly and you will truly gain a sense of appreciation towards the fragility of life. There is nothing more precious than a life, especially one lived with a dedication towards helping other, and it is up to every individual to make the most of his life because it is frightening how quickly it can be cut down.

The City

 I fucking hate the city. Perhaps this short (short) story will show you exactly how much I hate the fucking city:

He knows that one day he’s going to die because he’s going to try to merge onto the right lane and some asshole will think it’s funny to speed up right as he’s merging even though he’s had the blinker on for fifteen fucking seconds and they will collide at 70 miles an hour exploding into a fleshy multicolor paste all over the freeway. The 105 will be closed for hours with the mess he’s made and the victim’s parents will demand reparations, only to have their requests fall on deaf ears because all the police officers are too busy watching American Idol on their smartphones while breaking Tyrone’s back with the baton and maybe a flashlight, depends on whether it’s after 6. The cops in Watts must have it rough, having to evict bums off the streets and busting up crack deals at every street corner. Little do they know that the crack actually has shards of glass in it because it’ll fuck you up, and those sneaky bastards confiscate Tyrone’s pipe too. Officer Mendez goes first and immediately the glassy shrapnel proceeds to fuck up his day. Later on he will visit the doctor only to be told that his tuberculosis has been severely exacerbated by the bits of glass fucking his shit up. He coughs blood while Officer Jackson takes his hit, holding it in cause he isn’t a little bitch, and releases smoke and glass into his partner’s face. He grew up on this shit, you know; he’s used to things fucking up his day; to him it’s nothing new…

They toss Tyrone out on the corner of Century and 92^nd and drive through the wall of the McDonald’s, taking the poor cashier with them. Her name was Sandy and all she ever really wanted in life was to be a dog. To be whipped and chained and brought to her knees only to get a steaming pile of…in her face, all over her face. Now she is lying in bits and pieces all over the linoleum floor as women and children scream their lungs out at the carnage, women urging their children to finish playing in the playpen, come on that’s a good lad, come along now, be careful not to slip on the red paste it tastes real gnarly. He follows his mother’s hand, strong, vicelike grip, leading him towards the middle of the street, sink or swim, either you make it or not, playing chicken with the oncoming F-150, whoopsie daisy thought you were gonna get hit huh, well you live to play another day. Now run along now, back to the house, back to the fucked up fences and the barred up windows, back to the cell block where you don’t even get 3 square meals a day let alone a roof over your head…

A gunshot wakes him up in the middle of the night, and the air is filled with a ghastly chorus of alleycats meowing their inconsolable wails to cats just as miserable as them, hacking and hissing and spitting hairballs onto the street, onto the cardboard box where the crazy guy that hangs outside Walgreens lives; no one understands that he has schizophrenia and that his life is one continuous acid trip that was triggered during the night the Berlin Wall fell, and as the first Germans raced across the no man’s land that meant certain death for decades and decades, rushing to be reunited with families long since forgotten, or worse, dead, the man took a heavy dose, 500 micrograms, and within minutes his world dissolved into a deconstructed reality where he was free to assume any shape, and he truly believed he could fly, jumping over the balcony of his apartment fully believing he would remain in the air forever, and in fact he was in the air forever because the trip allowed it; in fact he’s still flying even though his legs were broken and the resulting mental instability led him to be kicked out to the streets where he has remained for more than 20 years, less than a shade, but still attached to the earth, roaming, unwilling to let it go. And while the cripple sleeps the cats piss on his box and fuck next to his face, the female slashing at the cripple and shrieking violently while the male pounds away, also shrieking violently. A little further down the street a prostitute gets forcibly ejected from a moving Cadillac, viscous seminal fluid all over her face and hair, skirt tattered and bleeding, eyes and nose free-flowing with a sickening mixture of saliva, tears, snot, and mascara. She lies on the curb face-down, ass up, and retching into gutter, vomits the night out, bright orange chunks of half-digested food mixed with tinges of crimson free-flowing within the clear fluid; she retches and clutches her stomach, her head overwhelming, threatening to black out, world dangerously spinning beneath her. She reaches into her bra, fingers shaking violently, and produces a wad of tightly wrapped bills, begins unfurling it and wails to the night when she finds that it’s filled entirely with singles…

The sun breaks over the buildings in the morning, and with it begins another day. Nameless, faceless creatures stagger upright from their slumber and set at once to ensure the machine keeps moving, keeps turning, demanding its sacrifices be brought to it in blood and sweat. The sun will rise, reach its zenith, and descend while the multitudes fester and swarm under the heat and oppression, breeding exponentially less like animals and more like bacteria…And the cycle continues, day in, day out, an unbroken cycle spinning more and more rapidly as the days progress and months turn to years, and the same story is played out night after night under fake names and faker disguises, persisting until the energy required to keep the wheel spinning runs out, but by this time the inertia of the wheel will ensure it keeps spinning until it’s loosened from its supports, and runs itself straight to the ground with all of us under its weight.

Introduction

Welcome to my brand spankin' new blog. I'll be posting shit that I write every now and then. I suppose it's kind of pointless to have this thing, seeing as how I personally don't give a fuck about a lot of things, especially other people, but my therapist says I should have some form of release otherwise all my anger gets pent up and tends to explode at random intervals. Like during class, or at the dinner table with my folks, or even when I'm trying to tie my shoes and the fucking bus driver takes off without me. He says that when he was younger he used to have a journal where he would write whenever he felt sad or upset. Personally I think that's kind of gay but I suppose it's ok because he ended up as a therapist and not as a starbucks coffee lady or something. I met one of those girls today and she was kind of cute but she had these nasty, crusted lips, dark bags under her eyes, and crooked, bloodshot eyes, as if she stayed up all night taking lines of coke off of her boyfriend's chiseled washboard abs. I guess that would explain why she was all twitchy, or it might've been because she was strung out on coffee or something cause she almost dropped my coffee while handing it to me. If it had dropped I would have probably punched her in the face.

 I have mentioned elsewhere that I talk to sand. It's true--I won't deny it. A single grain of sand has yet to talk back to me, but that's ok because I give them voices and they sort of go along with it. I also like observing sand just because it all looks so similar yet so different at the same time. Taken as a panorama view, a scene of sand can look overwhelming, with the individuality of each grain virtually nonexistent.  But taken piece by piece, the homogenous scene turns into something different, with each grain representing some crucial aspect of a story we're all missing out on. A grain of sand can teach you just as much about your humanity as some preacher standing on a pulpit. The individual makes up the whole, and no matter how insignificant you may seem, remember that each grain of sand contains a story, and each story is as compelling as the last.Until next time, mates. Take it easy.

Don't forget to use protection.