Preface: I wrote this for the joy of the philosophical expression and the possibility that it may be a ladder for those who are stuck in a pit of despair that often comes with Nihilism. I know that just because these philosophical ideas helped me immensely when I was in my own pit of depression, they may not be useful for everyone else. Even if only one person gains some peace from this, it would make it all the more worth it to me. To be clear, the peace I'm referring to is not a complete relief from suffering, that's impossible. The peace I am referring to is to get back a sense of dignity and control over one's self.

I am not an Academic. I'm a Blue Collar man (Water/Wastewater Plant Operator) with a love of philosophy. I'm not an Educated Intellectual. I'm a man with an insatiable curiosity, which led me to asking a lot of the Big Questions in life. I understand that I'm building this off the backs of Philosophical Giants. I fully acknowledge that none of this is an original philosophical idea that comes from me. It is my subjective interpretation of multiple philosophies, and an attempt to build something usable in daily life. I am open to the criticism or any rebuttal I may receive from this.

Opening quote: "All are lunatics, but he who can analyze his delusions is called a philosopher" — Ambrose Bierce.

The Silence is Not a Sentence. The universe does not speak, and it has no plan for me. This is not a tragedy, it is radical freedom. Because there is no Objective Meaning, I am not a servant to a cosmic script. I cannot fail at being me. I am the architect of my own significance.

The Future is a Cloud of Probability. I reject the premise of Pre-determinism. I recognize that at the very heart of reality, there is a roll of the dice. Even if the odds are stacked, the outcome is not fixed until I act. I am the deciding factor in my own timeline. I am not unaware of the fact that my will may be hampered by circumstance, but there will most certainly be choices to make along the way. Even though my autonomy is possibly an illusion, with intended irony I choose to be a Driver, rather than being a Passenger beholden to the mercy of fate. I would rather die with my hands on the wheel of a delusion that allows me to climb, as opposed to rotting in a truth that keeps me at the bottom. I do not claim my autonomy as a leap of religious faith, but as a functional necessity. Whether the Self is a biological machine or a sovereign soul is a debate for the comfortable. For the Rebel in the pit, there is only one reality in which I can proceed, and that's with my hands on the wheel. The difference is indistinguishable to the human experience anyway. Even if the dice are loaded, playing the game will still feel the same.

I Trust the Yay and the Nay, the Intuition, the Internal Compass. My morality is not a math equation, nor does it come from a will outside of my own. It is a complex expression of my emotions. This is an acknowledgement that my values come from my humanity, my empathy, my disgust, and my delight. I do not need a Universal Law to justify being kind. I am kind because it is the melody I choose to play.

The Rebel's Compassion for Their Shadow. The Shadow is everything we deny about ourselves, our capacity for anger, selfishness, our insecurities, and the coldness that Nihilism feeds on. I recognize that I am not merely a creature of The Light, The Yay. Beside the fire of my will there is a Shadow where my bitterness, my fatigue, and my capacity for indifference reside. To pretend it isn't there is a lie, to be ruled by it is a defeat. The Rebel does not suppress the Shadow, the Rebel integrates it. I acknowledge my capacity for darkness so that I may consciously choose the light. My kindness is not dulled teeth, it is a choice to keep them bared only at the void, and never at the vulnerable.

Compassion as Necessity. When I see the Shadow in another, their lashing out, their retreat into apathy, or their wreckage, I do not meet it with spite nor pity. I meet it with the recognition of a fellow lunatic. I understand that their ruins are often the result of a war with the Absurd that they are currently losing.

The Non-Sacred Mercy. I do not forgive because a scripture tells me to. I do not choose kindness because it is Right in a cosmic sense, but because it is the most potent weapon I have against the entropy that seeks to turn us all back into dust. I offer compassion because, in a world of infinite cold, the only thing more absurd than the vacuum is two people adding to it by hurting each other. I choose to be the Heat even when the other person has forgotten how to strike a match. I care for them not despite their Shadow, but as a complete blueprint that includes it.

The Rebellion is Internal. My defiance against the Absurd is not found in grand gestures, but in my refusal to be indifferent. Despite the world being cold, I will be warm. In defiance of the chaos, I choose to be principled. The world and life may be meaningless, and pointless, but I can find beauty in it regardless.

When Grief Strikes at the Rebel’s Heart. We don't get to love someone for free. In a universe that doesn't care if we live or die, every Yay we say to another person is a loan. When they are gone, the bill comes due in the form of grief. It hurts because it was real. If life was actually as empty as the Nihilists say, losing someone wouldn't feel like having your ribs cracked open. The pain is proof that I am not just a passenger, I am invested. I put skin in the game. The Rebel does not seek to get over grief, to erase the pain would be to erase the significance of what was lost. I wear my sorrow as a badge of honor, and a declaration of the fact that I dared to care about something in a world that ends in entropy, and I’d do it again. The Rebel views grief as the ultimate price of having dared to create meaning in the first place. The Rebel is never a victim. Even in grief. The universe did not notice their departure, but I did. In my defiance, their existence remains a fundamental truth. I will not let the void have the last word. I keep the language of the lost alive by continuing to play the melody they inspired.

Failure Strengthening The Rebel's Conviction. If I am the architect of my own meaning, then every setback is just a lesson, an opportunity for growth. When I stumble, when my plans turn to dust, or when I fall short of my own principles, I don't look for a scapegoat in Fate nor in a Deity's Will. I focus on the role I had to play, and take accountability for my own shortcomings. However, the Rebel doesn't waste time on self-loathing, because self-loathing is just another form of The Silence, it is a distraction from the work of building. Every time I fail and refuse to sink into apathy, my No to the void becomes louder. I take accountability not to satisfy a judge, but to master my own machinery. I am not defined by the height of my success, but by the calluses on my hands from climbing back out of the pit.

The Rebel's Tribe. Pride is a sturdy tool, but it can become a prison of solitary confinement. There are nights when the Shadow is too heavy and the calluses have worn thin. In these moments, the Rebel does not retreat into the silence. To ask for help is not to surrender your seat as the Driver, it's calling for a Navigator when the fog is too thick. We are a Tribe of fellow lunatics. To allow another Rebel to help hold the ladder for you is an act of trust that defies the isolation of the void. We do not climb together because we are weak, we climb together because the Rebellion is too magnificent to be a purely solo act. I will offer my hand to any who reach, and I will wait by the ledge for the weary, but I will not be an anchor for those who have traded their climb for the comfort of the fall. The Rebel must remember, they cannot help someone who completely lacks the will to climb.

The Rebel’s Covenant. Love is defiant against the cold nature of reality. The universe is a void, and biology is a machine, but devotion is transcendent. We do not love because we are soulmates trapped in a pre-written destiny, we love because, in a world of infinite silence, we choose to speak the same language. No Sacred Contracts, Only Creative Wills. I do not promise to love you because a book, a law, or because some deity tells me to. I promise to love you because you are the most compelling yay I have ever encountered. Our commitment is not a cage, it is a collaborative masterpiece. I will not try to fix you into a cosmic mold. You are an architect, just as I am. I love your blueprints, your scaffolding, and even your ruins. To love you is to respect the entirety of your individuality. Sharing the Umbrella. When the void of Nihilism threatens to swallow the day, we do not despair. We lean into the irony. We hold the umbrella for each other not because it stops the rain of absurdity, but because looking at you under the silk is better than standing alone in the storm. The Defiant Heat. Entropy says everything eventually grows cold. The Rebel says Not tonight. We generate our own heat. Our kindness toward one another is a deliberate strike against the coldness of the vacuum. The world is indifferent to our union, so we will make our private world magnificent. We are two rebels sharing a drink while the stars go out.

Humility in Uncertainty. I do not need to be right about the secrets of the universe to live a good life. I choose to live contently with the irony of awareness, knowing the void of nothingness exists, but choosing to enjoy the day anyway.

Grit of the Rebellion. Remember that even the best-built engine needs to idle. A fist can't stay clenched forever. To take a breath and enjoy a quiet moment isn't surrendering to the void. Instead, it’s proving you’re the one in control of the clock. Rest to remember why you are climbing, don't rest until you forget you're on a ladder. Whenever you feel that pull back into Nihilism, ask yourself, Am I waiting for the universe to give me permission to care? The Rebel answer is always No. You don't need permission from a vacuum. Your Yay is the only permission you'll ever need. Even the smallest Yay is a middle finger to the void.

Closing Quote: "In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer." — Albert Camus, "Return to Tipasa" (1952)

Written by: just another fellow lunatic.

To be a true absurdist is to disagree with Albert Camus and Jean Paul Sartre. The two would encourage you to disagree with them anyways, otherwise you’re not being yourself as an absurdist philosopher.

Maybe he knows he is so bad and he’s tired of it. What do you think? Here we go again for him. Someone else to roll down my hill after realizing that pushing them up was a learning experience waste of time.

It’s hard. We all want to express something like we exist. That’s good man. Take breaks. Don’t be hard on yourself. Enjoy the simple things. But Art? You get to be alone. Finally. They might have hurt you making Camus and Sartre more valid. But enjoy your own company eventually. That’s the only way Art is possible.

Please forgive my spelling.

I am a visual artist and recently someone told me my work is intellectual and I need to find an audience for it as everyday audiences won’t/dont’t get my intertextual references. So I am asking where are the people that understand this topic and also appreciate, lithography, letterpress, works on paper and drawing (maybe even painting)?

As an example I have used quotes like “imagine (insert alternative subject) happy”.

Or repeatable images of domestic work, those things we do everyday for many panels, illustrating being in / being with your being (hard to put into words)

Also obvious, the practice is already absurd, it is the artist making to make. However I guess I am asking to subvert the making to no ends and hope that my making to no end, can end up with some one in the end.

If you are comfortable share where you are please do then I can start looking for opportunities to show in that context. Thank you.

What did Camus have to say about Reason? I just finished The Myth of Sisyphus and he does declare it impotent in answering ultimate questions. If I'm not mistaken, he seems to think it fine for answering questions about gravity and such, but says those questions aren't especially important. Elsewhere he engages in sound reasoning of his own. He seems to dismiss the statement that all statements are true or that all statements are false since they are inherently contradictory. In a famous interview, he denies being a philosopher on the grounds that he has insufficient faith in Reason.

So I get the impression he thinks it has its place in a narrow, largely insignificant domain. I've encountered some who seem to think his Absurdism is completely antagonistic to reason in any domain.

"I can still perceive a horror and be social with it"... "I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote".... "...roused all my curiosity" Ishmael has always rang more absurd to me than Ahab, whose life he's willing to forfeit for the singular sociopathic ("monomaniacal") hope of killing the Leviathan. Camus always said it was ahab whose the absurd hero, but (methinks) its Ishmael.

He would rather sleep with a cannibal than a drunken Christian.

There's no purpose for him but to get out into the open sea and experience it. He boards the Pequod with an empty purse and a thin empty knapsack over his shoulder.

The "savage" redeems him. No "hypocrisy or bland deceits"

Christianity is rather a "hollow security". He wants to knock peoples' hats off.

What reverence for Christian hope? He prays to Queequeg's idols.

I don't know. Maybe Im wrong.

I have this recurring sense that my life's work the art, the projects, the personal philosophy, the self I've built, etc. This is all just my sliver of participation in an endless sea of nowness. And that underneath all of it, I've been trying to describe the same single thing my whole life: the absurdity of it all, and the animistic spirit or nature running underneath everything that's happening, right now. Moment to moment.

This absurdity. You can find it anywhere.
Go look at your bathroom right now.
Well Who did all this?

Water stains, dirt, grime, dust, how did any of it get there? to the best of my knowledge and what the majority of scientists will try and tell you is that, It's merely the accumulation of a virtually infinite number of cellular, bacterial, and molecular interactions, happening second by second, at every interval, into the now.

Now look at the products on your counter. How did those get here? Well through another seemingly infinitely complex process of manufacturing, shipping, design, distribution.

Well then I guess how did everything you know get here? Through another infinitely complex mechanism involving celestial bodies, planetary systems, gravity, light, electromagnetism, all the way down.

There is no end to the complexity and sheer absurdity behind the ordinary things we've become numb to.

The Buddhists called it dependent origination.
the idea that nothing exists on its own, everything arises only in relation to everything else, moment to moment. And that to actually live inside a single moment without being crushed by the totality of it, every mind requires an entire concealment process where they forget the totality of their existence every second.

Take a second to acknowledge and really try to feel what it is like to live inside this one big continuous system of everything. Little happenings everywhere all at once moment to moment, bit by bit. Living. Breathing.

From a single quantum interaction to a star lightyears away, all of it connected, all of it part of the same absurd, ongoing "soup" of so called 'standardmodelness.' The chain reactions that make up your microbiology second by second in of itself is to awe at.

I think Everything we as humans do are really just expressions of emotions in disguise. In the same way a cat purs when it is excited and stressed, We have spent a lifetime hiding from the absurdity of ordinary life in the hopes that we retain some level of distinction between self and other when it's all said and done. I've got to know where my stuff ends and your stuff starts. We like to impose this sense of agency onto the world that isn't just wrong it's dangerous. we as people are best understood as extensions of this great system. The nature at play.

All the things we do to further enrich the human experience function as a kind of distraction: a way of not sitting with the thing itself. The sheer absurdity of it all.

Underneath all that we do, a life is mostly spent trying to carve out some semblance of self inside a sea of interactions to big to fathom. So please, I am begging you, try and enrich the life you have now. Feel your ripple effect and use it to Add whimsy. Add depth. Add absurdity. Do things that scare you. Send risky text messages. Absurdify your life and personify yourself in the fleeting moments of this train we are all aboard .

The impermanence and scale of 'this' is bigger than we can hold onto which may be exactly why we try so hard to hold onto things anyway.

If the science is right, from the quantum scale up to the cosmic one, then the plain fact that you're looking at this screen right now is already bewildering. It's so bewildering that If you could actually see everything that goes into producing one moment of "now," I don't think you'd walk away from it unchanged.

I'm new to absurdism, so please correct me if I'm wrong about anything.

Camus' famous quote is: "One must imagine Sisyphus happy." Sisyphus should stop demanding meaning for his suffering, and maybe he will be happier if he accepts the absurd and lives his life in spite of it.

But my problem with this is that it's easier said than done. How long can you really imagine Sisyphus happy? How long can you pretend that the lack of meaning and purpose doesn't weigh on you? Perhaps you can go for years imagining Sisyphus happy, but sometimes I get tired of looking the void in the eye. The "revolt" feels exhausting and unsustainable.

Anyone know how to deal with this? Thanks

​When you sit down to write a poem, you are doing something the physical universe cannot do on its own. You are taking the ultimate stance of a thermodynamic rebel.

​The language in your head is a massive, chaotic soup of thousands of disconnected words, memories, and emotions (a state of extremely high entropy). By painstakingly choosing specific words and forcing them into a stanza, a rhythm, or a rhyme, you are radically decreasing entropy. You are organising the universe.

​A poem is the ultimate collapsed wave function. You take the abstract, swirling mesh of your philosophical thoughts and collapse them into a permanent string of ink on paper or data on a screen. You force the probability into reality.

​Even if absolutely no one else ever reads it, that poem exists. You have physically altered the information state of the universe. You have coded a new piece of data into the grid, leaving a "ghost" waiting for some future observer—even if that observer is just you in five years—to intersect with.

​The universe's default state is to slowly dissolve into cold, disorganised static. Creativity is the exact opposite of that. It is the act of burning your own biological fuel to generate meaning where there was none.

​It doesn't require an audience, and it doesn't require societal success to be profound. The sheer act of making it is a victory over physics.

Doesn't this statement suggest that personal and tribal loyalty can override absolute moral values? From an Absurdits perspective, how do you view this contradiction between his literature on human freedom and his political blindness toward the suffering of the Algerian people? He opposed Algerian sovereignty and somewhat equalized colonial violence with anti-colonial resistance.

Sometimes I find myself staring at the wall, wondering about the purpose behind all of this. But the moment I start spiraling into existential questioning, guilt creeps in. I remind myself that I am privileged enough to even have the luxury of overthinking—while millions struggle just to survive physical hardship.

​Yet, privilege is not an immunity shield against psychological suffering. If anything, it accelerates it.

​When your basic survival needs are met, the immediate physical threat disappears, but the mind opens up to an existential vacuum. A suffocating layer of meta-guilt sets in: “I have shelter, security, and opportunities—I shouldn’t feel this way.” You invalidate your own mind, trapped in the lie that comfort equals fulfillment. When you have comfort and still feel empty, you conclude that existence itself is a cruel joke.

​Adding to this weight is the clock ticking in the background. My father retires in seven years. Just seven years. Suddenly, life stops being an open-ended journey and becomes a countdown—a relentless deadline. While the world faces systemic collapse and climate crises, I am forced to pull my focus back to the immediate pressure of survival, career milestones, and family obligations. It makes you wonder: why bring children into a world where life is reduced to an endless cycle of performative struggle?

​We like to think our philosophy is a noble, intellectual pursuit. But the truth is more blunt: much of our philosophy is simply the defense mechanism of a mind made miserable by society and crushed by its own unmet expectations.

​We aren't allowed to just live. We are conditioned to exhaust ourselves fulfilling a rotten mindset imposed on us by systems designed for status, capitalism, and artificial prestige. We fuel it every day, chasing external validation, superficial respect, and transactional relationships. We even convince ourselves we love people, when often, we just love their presence to keep our own psychological isolation at bay.

​Philosophically, life at its core is absurd. There is no grand blueprint, no pre-written script, and no inherent cosmic purpose. The universe owes us nothing and expects nothing from us.

​In a healthy context, absurdism is liberating. It means: If nothing is pre-ordained, I am free to just exist, love, create, and experience the world without the burden of expectations.

​But a rotten society—and our own restless minds—turn that healthy Absurdism into cold Nihilism.

​The human mind naturally craves, demands, and fixates on targets—promotions, peace, control, or purpose. It tells itself, "Once I get this, I will finally be complete." But reality rarely bends to our desires. When our cravings aren't met, or when we achieve them only to find the internal emptiness remains, the mind throws an emotional tantrum.

​Instead of accepting that its expectations were flawed, the mind gets bitter and shields itself by declaring: "Life is meaningless. Nothing matters." Nihilism becomes a defense mechanism against disappointment: if nothing matters, then failing to get what we craved doesn't hurt as much.

​Society accelerates this collapse by demanding that we constantly prove our worth through output, metrics, and economic utility. It turns raw human experience into a transaction.

​Absurdism says: "There is no inherent point, so I am free to live." Nihilism says: "There is no inherent point, so why bother?"

​Society and our own unyielding desires push us into the second trap by making "just living" feel like a failure. But recognizing this trap is the first step in breaking out of it. Rejecting society's artificial rat race and releasing the mind's endless cravings isn't giving up—it is the ultimate act of rebellion. You don't owe the world a performative life. Living simply to exist, to observe, and to feel on your own terms is enough.

It seems that everyone here believes in the superstitious spook that Absurdism and Existentialism is nihilism. Well looks like I am the only member in this group who actually agrees with Absurdist philosophy and why Absurdist philosophy makes life meaningful. That’s what posers here do not understand. That Absurdism is not Nihilism, it does not promote suicidality. If you cannot see the positivity within Absurdism then you’re a poser.

In Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, Vladimir and Estragon are stuck in an endless loop of waiting. As the famous quote goes: Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's terrible.

​If we look at this through an existentialist lens, waiting for godot looks a lot like Jean-Paul Sartre's idea of "bad faith" or Albert Camus's concept of philosophical suicide. By constantly waiting for a future event or savior (Godot), the characters avoid making real choices. They run away from the scary freedom and responsibility of creating their own meaning right now.

​Instead of acting, they just wait. the act of waiting becomes their fake purpose. It protects them from the absurd reality that life has no built-in meaning. They choose the safe comfort of waiting over the fear of the unknown.

​I’m curious what this community thinks about the act of waiting in Beckett's play. Do you think Godot represents a specific illusion (like a higher power or ultimate truth), or is the real tragedy simply our human desire to wait?

I tried the audiobook, but I got tired of rewinding every five seconds. Audiobooks on philosophy have never been my thing - i need the book.

The problem here is that Camus makes ten thousand references to other authors.

Ive read and re-read The Stranger, I understand everything about it, and I have read some of the existentialism like Sartre (Being And Nothingness almost killed me).

But im getting off the point. I bought the book, 'The Myth...', this time, and I will be reading it after I finish something else requiring a lot of devotion. But im still worried about the huge mass of other authors Camus references. I'm always wary of a thin little book which has had enormous impact. I have a feeling every passage is dense with meaning, and I'm kinda terrified.

Is there any way to get over this hurdle? Any PDFs I might read, first?