i just finished reading ‘the outsider’ by albert camus. i started it last night and it was just what i needed. i expected it to be serious, to draw me in with it’s substance. the warmth of the last page washed over me and i felt content, a shared in the experience through yellow pages. it is strange how you can identify so fully with a character, almost feel like you and them are peering through the same eyes for awhile. when i am too old to explore as i can now, i will do so through book upon book. there is such clarity shared, simple, sweet lessons pressed into the palms of the readers hand. a gift.
i remember my existentialism class and how much i felt i belonged. soaking up the words, like medicine, the analysis of choice, of our freedom and how we accept the responsibilities of our actions or do anything to avoid them. the lectures would slice through the air and imbed in the core of me, spark my mind which grew with further thought. peeling back the layers of society, the connections between us all, our arrested development when it comes to the truth. our understanding of it so vague. how hard is it to be open with each other, to let go of the game, to bare the rooms of our questioning conscience. we are social creatures but at what point did it become better to company to be alone? there is hope, boiling down the values that have failed me to the reality i can cling to. letting go. letting it all go, the resentment, the regret, the fear, the anxiety, the doubt, all the poison in my pores. to be free and able to embrace the absurdity, the circumstances which bring me to the different doorsteps of life.
when the tension loosens, the muscles in my face relax. my breath rolls waves over my empty mind. i can rest in this understanding, in the reminder of what i have always knew.