A Steaming Cup of Late-Night Existentialism

At school recently, I've been reading a good deal of Existentialist literature, from Sartre (Les Jeux Sont Faits, or "The Chips are Down," roughly translated) in French class, to Camus's The Stranger (thankfully in English) in my AP Lit course. My initial reaction to Existentialism was primarily groaning resentment: not only did I see existentialist ideas as a annoying stain on the already dreary trial of February, but they also scared me just a bit, like some gaping abyss howling into endless darkness, threatening to consume whatever pitiful strains of happiness had managed to survive endless college apps and months of subfreezing temperatures.

However, even though I wouldn't quite say I was surprised, I would say that all this deep thinking about the core of existentialism has left me with a new respect with the mentality, even if I don't agree with all its pillars (and, to be honest, even existentialists don't always agree with existentialists; this seems, from my minimal experience, like one of the vaster school of thought in philosophy and literary criticism).

I don't have the time or the mental stamina at the moment to give the entire backstory for the forthcoming rant, but just know it was...inspired by The Stranger, and also the frightening imminent notion of having to write a formal essay on said novel. Nothing like an 3-day essay assignment out of nowhere to encourage critical thinking...anywho, here goes...

One of the main ideas of existentialism I've really come to embrace (at least one I've personally picked up, even if it wasn't intentionally inserted by the author(s))is that of scarringly gorgeous, blisteringly blindingly overwhelmingly raw truth, and how often we humans hide from it. Whether it's the truth within our own (small, petty, meaningless *cough* sorry, channeling Sartre) lives, or the grander and more terrifying truths about the universe, we as a species construct so many fictions to spruce up the bare humongity of this world into bite-size pieces we can pretend to understand.

Truth can be scary sometimes, especially when that truth bares its fangs and snaps wildly at the house of straw our lives are sometimes based on. If we don't build our lives around a foundation of truth, we're sacrificing the possibility of a strong, sturdy (if more difficult to build) "brick house" of a life.

Paradoxically, if we don't embrace truth, then we condemn ourselves to a life of fear.

When we deceive ourselves, even if we lie to ourselves well,we never manage to fully suppress those devilish fears lingering, grinning nastily below the surface of what we so frantically tell ourselves is true. Unless we face these demons of doubt head-on once and for all and accept whatever bitter pills they make us swallow, then we will always remain like the foolish little big who builds a straw house, with no foundation to hold it when floods, earthquakes, and big Bad Wolves--metaphoric and otherwise--come knocking at the door.

Over the next few days, this blog will be bouncing around from more wonderful philosophy to a medical assessment of certain metaphorical body parts of a certain political party.

I love you guys, and I love getting back into writing like this. I feel like I've got fire in my fingers again...