One of our major English assignments was to write a lyrical essay about a subject matter of our choice. A lyrical essay by definition is is a literary hybrid that combines elements of poetry, essay, and memoir, and is a form of creative nonfiction. I chose to make my subject matter be existentialism, since I was in a pretty existential mood during the time I wrote this. I wanted to intertwine my personal feelings of dread with the philosophies of existentialist thinkers such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus, and so I ended up with whatever this is supposed to be. Enjoy.

Rocks and Clouds

This morning, I could barely find the motivation to get out of bed. My body felt heavy and weighed down by the atmosphere. In my head, I kept thinking about all the things that went wrong yesterday and about the chaos I saw in my dreams and about how anxious I was for what would happen today and about what could potentially go wrong after I got up. 

Then I picked up my phone, let the blue light trigger the release of neurotransmitters in my brain, and as the dopamine coursed through my veins, I got out of bed.

It was time for me to go live my life.

But even as I move through the day, I’m so tired. I can feel myself slowly compressing under the weight of my own exhaustion: my exhaustion with school, my exhaustion with relationships, the small stress of every little mistake I’ve made piling atop my back. I sit enveloped in it, in the tiredness that comes with living. Even now, every time I stop typing to rest my hands, I can feel it coming back into my fingertips. 

The heaviness of the atmosphere is weighing on my body, so much so that every day I feel as if I’ll collapse if my luck is bad enough, if enough bad things happen in a row. I’m always just on the verge of having a breakdown. 

The weight on my back is piling higher and higher, and I don’t know when it will stop. Will it ever stop?

What do I even live for? I-

Ah, that’s right. I have an essay to write on existentialism.

Existentialism. Why do we exist? What’s the point? Nothing matters, death is inevitable. Yea. That’s what I’m supposed to be writing about. Jean-Paul Sartre was a philosopher. He did philosopher things like being old and white, and writing words on paper, and he probably had a wife. Albert Camus was also a man who existed. Who cares? He’s dead now. They’re all dead. We’re all gonna die. Hurrah for literature!

Camus wrote an essay about Sisyphus. Sisyphus was this dude in mythology who was such a big asshole that all the gods wanted to kill him, but because he was an asshole he kept refusing to be killed, and so when he died of natural causes, the gods told him to push a big rock for the rest of eternity. To just keep pushing the rock up the hill. And then wait for it to roll back down. And then keep pushing the rock up the hill. And then wait for it to roll back down…

Just finish this essay, keep pushing the rock up the hill. Just graduate high school, keep pushing the rock up the hill. (Wipe the sweat off your face.) Just go to college, keep pushing the rock up the hill. Just graduate college, keep pushing the rock up the hill. (Wipe the tears from your eyes.) Just get a job, keep pushing the rock up the hill. (Stop trembling, focus.) Just plan your retirement, keep pushing the rock up the hill. Just pay for your funeral, keep pushing the rock up the hill. And then keep pushing the rock up the hill.

And then keep pushing the rock up the hill, 

and then keep pushing the rock, up the hill, 

and then, keep pushing the rock up the hill,

and then keep. pushing the, rock up the, hill,

and, then keep pushing,, the rock. up,

and then,, keep, pushing. the,,, 

rock,, and. then keep,,, push,,ing the,,

keep,, push,,,ing. and. then,,

keep, pushing,,, and,,

then. and,,,

Jean-Paul Sartre. He was, as you could put it, radically free. He said that people have the freedom to choose their own meaning to life, to make their own authentic choices in order to decide that meaning. 

I make my own decisions. I decide what I live for.

There is no point in writing essays.

I’ve decided that I will forge my own meaning of life, and writing essays is no longer a part of it.

I am making an authentic choice with my own free will.

But I need to write the essay,

So I can get a good grade in english,

So I can show that good grade to colleges,

So I can get in,

And get an education,

And get a career,

And get money,

And pay for food,

And pay for rent,

And then when I have enough money I can pay for my own funeral,

And be buried in the ground,

And then I’ll win.

I’ll be a skeleton, crushed under the massive weight of a boulder, lying at the bottom of a hill.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to push rocks. Instead I wish I could act like the wind, blowing the clouds across the sky to form shapes from my imagination, creating lively images for all beings on earth to gaze longingly at.

Clouds are one of my favorite things. I like drawing them. I like looking at them. I like pointing out cool ones to my friends. Clouds can take many different shapes. Sometimes they are cute and puffy and it seems like if you stretched your hand out far enough, you could reach up to pet them. Sometimes they’re feathery and light, and if enough wind came our way they’d fall apart at the seams. Sometimes they cover the expanse of the sky, and they look grey and daunting and threaten to rain down. 

In the grand scheme of things, the clouds do not matter. They’re there one day but they will be gone the very next. The water molecules can’t stay in the air forever. One could say that a cloud’s existence is short and therefore meaningless. But that’s not true, not to me. I think that although meaningless, clouds are especially meaningful. A sort of optimistic nihilism, if you will.

When I’m upset, I like to look at the clouds. I like to remind myself there are good things in this world. That I have something to look forward to. That maybe the heavy feeling in my chest is lying to me, and it will go away with time. That maybe like a cloud, it will drift off with the seasons.

But my thoughts are not clouds. They are rocks that sit heavily at the bottom of my stomach. I wish my thoughts could be like clouds, gone with the wind. Off to a better place that’s not here. Anywhere but here. 

If I were Sisyphus, I wouldn’t continue mindlessly pushing the rock up the hill. No, I would choose to forge my own meaning. I would take my rock and hurl it right back at the tyrant gods who sentenced me to my punishment. I would forge my own weapon out of rock, take my blade of earth and fire, and strike down Zeus with my own mortal hands, and I’d shout at the top of my lungs, “I’m done with your endless rock pushing! I’m done having to follow your orders, and I’m going to finally make my own decisions for once! I can be my own god!”

But a single ant could never defeat a god. For now, I can only dream as I watch my aspirations roll right back down the hill. 

And all that’s left is answering the question: 

What do I live for? 

Do I live to achieve my goals? What are my goals? Do I have a purpose or do I just exist? Do I live solely for the sake of living? Does my short and meaningless life have any meaning to it?

AJJ is a folk punk band that I listen to on occasion. And by “on occasion” I mean whenever I feel the existential dread coming back to me. My favorite song of theirs is “Jesus Saves,” and the last line of the song goes like this:

“Let’s be our own gods, and take care of ourselves and the ones that we love.”

Who are the ones that I love?

I love my friends. They’re there for me. I’m there for them.

I love sitting next to people on benches and talking about the most random of shit.

I love the people who compliment me on my hand-painted jacket when I walk down the street.

That’s enough reason for me to feel happy.

Is this the meaning of life? To love?

Maybe that is why I wake up in the morning. Maybe that is why I can write this essay without feeling like complete garbage by the end. Maybe that’s why I can start to feel this cloud of existential dread start drifting away at last, although I know inevitably it will return.

But until then, I should take my medication.