The Existentialist
He lived alone in a flat above a laundrette, surrounded by the hum of machines and the faint scent of detergent. The Existentialist - he never used his name anymore - spent his days reading Kierkegaard, Heidegger, and occasionally cereal boxes when the philosophy grew too dense.
Each morning, he sat at the window with a mug of black coffee, watching the world shuffle past. People with purpose. People with plans. He envied them, though he suspected they were deluded. “They mistake motion for meaning,” he muttered once, to a pigeon. The pigeon blinked and flew off.
He was searching for something. Not happiness. Not success. Just one Moment - capital M - of Authentic Existence. A flash of clarity. A glimpse of Being. He’d read it was possible. Rare, but possible.
He tried everything.
He stood in the rain without an umbrella. He stared into mirrors until his reflection blinked first. He once spent an entire afternoon in a cupboard, hoping the absence of light would reveal the presence of truth.
It didn’t.
Anxiety, he decided, was Negative Ontic Affirmation. Proof that something mattered, even if he couldn’t name it. He welcomed it like an old friend. It sat beside him at breakfast, whispering about mortality and the futility of toast.
Then came the Boundary Situation.
He was walking through the park when he saw a man collapse. People rushed to help. The Existentialist stood still. He felt the moment press against him - urgent, raw, real. He could act. He could choose. He could be.
But he didn’t.
He watched. The man was revived. The crowd dispersed. The moment passed.
That night, he sat in his armchair, staring at the ceiling. “Being Itself,” he whispered, “is come and gone.” He felt hollow. Not in despair. Just emptied. Like a cup that had once held something warm.
He tried to write. A journal entry. A confession. A grocery list. Nothing came.
He walked to the window. The street was quiet. A single lamppost flickered. A fox darted across the road. He watched it disappear.
“Ultimate Concern,” he said aloud, “slides.”
Then, softly: “And falls.”
He waited for something. A revelation. A punchline. A Moment of Plain Common Sense.
It didn’t come.
He returned to his chair. The coffee had gone cold. The books lay unopened. The machines below churned on.
And the Existentialist sat in silence.
Not broken.
Just still.
He lived alone in a flat above a laundrette, surrounded by the hum of machines and the faint scent of detergent. The Existentialist - he never used his name anymore - spent his days reading Kierkegaard, Heidegger, and occasionally cereal boxes when the philosophy grew too dense.
Each morning, he sat at the window with a mug of black coffee, watching the world shuffle past. People with purpose. People with plans. He envied them, though he suspected they were deluded. “They mistake motion for meaning,” he muttered once, to a pigeon. The pigeon blinked and flew off.
He was searching for something. Not happiness. Not success. Just one Moment - capital M - of Authentic Existence. A flash of clarity. A glimpse of Being. He’d read it was possible. Rare, but possible.
He tried everything.
He stood in the rain without an umbrella. He stared into mirrors until his reflection blinked first. He once spent an entire afternoon in a cupboard, hoping the absence of light would reveal the presence of truth.
It didn’t.
Anxiety, he decided, was Negative Ontic Affirmation. Proof that something mattered, even if he couldn’t name it. He welcomed it like an old friend. It sat beside him at breakfast, whispering about mortality and the futility of toast.
Then came the Boundary Situation.
He was walking through the park when he saw a man collapse. People rushed to help. The Existentialist stood still. He felt the moment press against him - urgent, raw, real. He could act. He could choose. He could be.
But he didn’t.
He watched. The man was revived. The crowd dispersed. The moment passed.
That night, he sat in his armchair, staring at the ceiling. “Being Itself,” he whispered, “is come and gone.” He felt hollow. Not in despair. Just emptied. Like a cup that had once held something warm.
He tried to write. A journal entry. A confession. A grocery list. Nothing came.
He walked to the window. The street was quiet. A single lamppost flickered. A fox darted across the road. He watched it disappear.
“Ultimate Concern,” he said aloud, “slides.”
Then, softly: “And falls.”
He waited for something. A revelation. A punchline. A Moment of Plain Common Sense.
It didn’t come.
He returned to his chair. The coffee had gone cold. The books lay unopened. The machines below churned on.
And the Existentialist sat in silence.
Not broken.
Just still.
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