The Answers to Humanity’s Eternal Questions are not deep but simple, shallow, and pitch black.
It’s a decoupling event that occurs constantly without notice. When out of nothing comes something and that something assumes more of its circumstance. Every empty gridiron is Tohuvabohu, every clanking kitchen is a War in Heaven. And we feel at our core that both the clamor and applause are equally annihilated in time.
The acceptance that there is no purpose or meaning other than what you can convince yourself to combust in the metaphysical engine of your life leaves you naked. When you feel it, not just “know” it, you can’t bounce reason off of the immateriality, can’t gather epiphany, can’t gain power; there is nothing to construct. That all the splendor is bookended by emptiness, that all you hold sacred is fated for iconoclasm. All you can do is grab your ball from the ditch and commence the game.
You don’t—and can’t—feel the Absurd in a creaturely way for very long. You take it back to the intellectual—let absurdity remain as word games and logic processing without the spiritual dredge—and get back to chasing dopamine, preferably in ways that don’t drain others of their own.
If there’s one useful thing absurdity marks upon you it is confidence in Anarchism. Where there is power there is also the wild delusion of its sanctioned permanence in those wielding it. Knowing illegitimate authority will always die no matter how zealous its acolytes may bring an anarchist peace where there could be undue suffering.