By E.K. Mam
Stylishly disillusioned and angsty, I started wearing turtlenecks and tweed blazers regularly when I was 16. Not so coincidentally, that’s when I also gravitated to Existentialism. I was a high school student taking classes I didn’t care for; forced into a routine I was strangled by; had responsibilities I was burdened with shackled to my ankles. I searched for a meaning, a reason, an excuse to justify my stagnated life. Surprise: I didn’t find much of an answer. “That’s just how it is” or “We all had to go through it, too” was the comforting counsel of some adults. Others tried to convince me that these were the necessary growing pains one had to endure to eventually comfortably take strives as an adult. But I felt I was wasting my youth in preparation for an adulthood I was not interested in. I was not just confused as to why things were the way they were; I was angry. My anger brewed into bitterness until I grew tired, not just of raging in vain: I had grown tired of life. Melodramatic? Excessive? Prematurely flinging myself into an emotional crisis? Perhaps. But I very much doubt that the core of my teenage rage is shared among many, across all age groups. At that age, I relished too much in the aesthetic of Existentialism to actually read deeply into the philosophy. Little did I know that the answer I was so desperately looking for was underneath my nose, in the very aesthetic and philosophy I claimed to live by.
Posted on August 30, 2020