Camus has written about the insignificance of it all though he stopped at saying that notwithstanding this truth we have to endure.
Philosophers have busied themselves making sense of our modern existence, but no matter how lengthy their treatises are on life and its supposed meaning, none of their obscure and vague language will fully capture the concreteness of the insignificance felt by that lonely individual who has to endure the drabness, boredom, and life’s obvious lack of purpose.
Monday reminds one of that cycle that doesn’t stop. Of the endless repetitions and unfillable hollowness of modern existence. One usually closes in upon himself by plugging his ears with music or noise, anything that will keep his thoughts from successfully arguing with and persuading him that jumping off the train is a more rational option than raging against the light which, sooner or later, will die.
“Life’s a calling, make it matter,” says a Teleperformance billboard. I don’t know which is worse, admitting that indeed having a mission is a b.s. and to altogether call it quits is a more rational choice or continually deluding oneself that there is a lofty purpose for all these.
But perhaps, Camus was right. That there is virtue in rebelling, in continuously pushing that boulder up a mountain only to see it falling down and pushing it up again until one’s dying days. That I think is my mission. If it can be called such.