It is now November 1, 2016. This year, I have now left ten months behind me and have two months ahead. Today has been unusually warm for November. This Monday has kept me unusually busy. I am entertaining the questions arising from this existential crisis I am experiencing. I do not know if there is any meaning in anything I do or accomplish. I don’t know if there is a point to this constant struggle. I want to say that I am done; but, my finish line is still out of sight. I cannot see it because it is dark, not necessarily because it is far. I want to say that I have countless miles to travel before I can sleep— but this would be incorrect. No one has countless miles. Everyone’s journey will one day end. My journey will one day end.
As I have on countless nights (countless because I cannot recall the number, not necessarily a literal countlessness), today I lay awake thinking about the transient nature of everything. Even the abstract concept, time, that induces panic within me as I think about the past ten months and the coming two months is transient. Everything is temporary. Finding something to hold onto that is fleeting at the same rate as which I am has proven difficult. I know this comes down to perspective. I can choose to perceive that which I wish to hold onto as passing alongside me. My problem is that I cannot presently identify anything worth holding onto. I cannot recognize the value of anything. Everything seems worthless and I, being a part of everything, am worthless.
The way in which I live is influenced by my idealism. I become frustrated and disappointed with living because there is a disconnect between my transient lived experienced and my rigid idealist mind. In many ways I am a romantic who looks back on her life with tenderness, but gazes forward in fear. Throughout my life I have learned to recognize the unpredictable nature of our temporary existence. There is a beauty in recognizing the complexity in our lives’ multidimensional essence. Simultaneously, there is something terrifying about being incapable of thinking about the uncertain future. I won’t deny that my worthless life is beautiful. I won’t deny that my my meaningless uncertain future frightens me. Since, I have ascribed the term beautiful to my life; describing it as meaningless and worthless now seems complicated. I am unsure about whether or not it is possible for something to be both worthless and beautiful. At this moment I will say that it is possible to be worthless and beautiful because the word ‘beautiful’ provides my life with a descriptive illustrative term but does not contribute any sense of expressive meaning.
I was wandering with existential thoughts, but am now taking them on walks. My fugitive mind has transitioned away from its escaped convict on the run identity. My vagabond thoughts have transitioned into ideas on a pilgrimage. My existential crisis has transformed itself into an existential calm. I am walking in my waiting place. I am moving in my thoughts.