Reading about existentialism, I’m once again made highly conscious of the absurdity of most theories and philosophies about life, what it means, and how to live it. I’m glad there are philosophers to question these things, although that emotion—gladness—is probably unrelated to philosophy or even thought.

Being pleased that there are people treating something important that I also think might be important is just the recognition of other people being like what I think people should be like: me. It’s disingenuous. It hinges on a doubt: as if there was a possibility that there aren’t people like me in the world, that there is a chance that I am unique and alone. A stupid fear that, like the essence of paranoia, is a disguise for the fact that I want to be unique.

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