Uncertainty, helplessness and the search for meaning in the world are not only my main companions in life, but also the main theme of existentialist philosophy. That very existential crisis – doubts and inner conflicts, searching for oneself, reassessing values – not just once or twice, but throughout life. This is what happens when you think too much – about yourself, about life, about meanings.
It’s great to have depressed authors who have spent their lives rushing around in their bodies in search of the unknown, suffering from the environment and people around them, asking questions about the eternal and never finding any definitive answers. Experiencing anxiety and uncertainty, realising the absurdity and meaninglessness of what is happening. It’s the best thing that lifts my spirits – when you realise that there is someone even more philosophical (despicable) than you.
I recently fell into an existential pit – there was a sense of alienation and incomprehension. Like you’re in the dark, even though it’s a sunny day outside. Like you’re walking down a well-traveled track, but you’re not sure if you should keep doing it. You try to grasp a wish by the tail, but it slips out of your hands. And the question in your mind is: is this what life is all about? Why is it so absurd and paradoxical? It’s like watching a stupid movie where things don’t go the way you imagined.
And then I came across a comic book about Kafka with a labyrinth on the cover. The curious thing is that there are authors I am interested in not only for the works they have written, but also in themselves – as people with unusual lifestyles, histories and attitudes. And Kafka (along with Dostoevsky, Nietzsche, Van Gogh, Picasso) is that case. I’m more interested in “watching the blog” of these people, not just reading their books or seeing their paintings. It’s as if they are a mirror of my soul in its various manifestations.
And what do I see in that mirror? Hypersensitivity. Abrasion and brokenness from the conditions of the external environment, which has created a black hole inside with a growing sense of absurdity and nonsense of what is happening. Salvation through my work – texts, ideas, paintings. Which led to the creation of your individual universe, into which the traumatic conditions of the external environment do not penetrate, or if they do, they are refracted and transformed according to the laws of the author’s universe formed.
You can only observe the artifacts of other people’s universes from afar – read a book, go to an art gallery, watch a video. But you cannot go inside and influence its existence. Each such universe is completely autonomous, it exists by itself. You cannot redraw a Van Gogh painting otherwise. And if you copy his style completely today, you still won’t get inside his universe. And if you write depressing Kafka-esque posts, that’s how it will be – “Kafka-esque”.
And I’m Shtuky.