How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it and why was I not informed of the rules and regulations but just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought by a peddling shanghaier of human beings? How did I get involved in this big enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn't it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager—I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint? - Repetition, S. Kierkegaard
Is it raining in your soul? Are you looking off to the side because you have an eye disease that causes your eyes to wander, or are you just that deep?
What's that, you say? Ohmygosh, I love Nietzsche, too! I carry around Camus' The Stranger in the original French in my back pocket, next to Sartre's Being and Nothingness and the ball of lint I gather from my belly button each day. It's so existential, belly button lint. Where does it come from? What does it mean? Does existence truly precede essence? Can we ever truly love? The world is just so...blue. But is the blue that I see the same as the blue you see? Or are you just that bad at using Photoshop?
God, I'm so fucking deep.
P.S. God is dead.
