It’s funny how the moment you start writing about your thoughts, the more its clanging sound thump louder in your chest and make every inch of silence a running refuge. And I wonder where can one escape, where can one flee, to find a momentary solace in a world full of roar.
Is this what it feels like to “exist in the nameless” like what my Metaphysics professor spoke to us earlier this Monday morning? To exist in the nameless, to to be overwhelmed by anxiety, to suffer the hell of authentic boredom, to be indifferent to the world each day: these are some of the experiences I know too well, to the point that they become my life, my soul, my totality.
I don’t know what my classmates felt about that. But they did look indifferent about the matter, indifferent in such a stupid way. I wonder if they have easier, more comfortable lives, more free from pain. Do they ever stop for a moment and think about the world and how difficult it is to exist in such uncertainty? Do they ever get the feeling of, what did Sartre called it, nausea?
If I switch places with them, will I find a more fulfilling existence or will it be like my own—dead and decaying all at the same time? Will life be better, brighter, if I was someone else? I wish I was someone else.