Existential crises are nasty things because they always involve the question of whether anything we do matters at all. Of course, if nothing does, then existential crises don’t matter either, which makes the fact of having one in the first place rather pointless. Nevertheless, from time to time, such things are unavoidable, arriving like a blow and bringing with them a thousand riddles.
For instance, why am I wearing this watch? Does it not make me a slave to my daybook, to our arbitrary habit of doing certain things at the same time every day? Am I really better off knowing how many hours I have until I’m supposed to be in bed?
Why do I feel the need to blog? I might have a much better time abandoning the internet and becoming a hermit. I can’t say, of course, because I’ve never tried it. If I did, it would mean I’d have to give up a thousand other things, like becoming an actor or a pastry chef. Which one’s the best? There’s no way to tell. What happens if you choose the wrong one? Is it better to stick to one dream or constantly change one’s mind?
Even writing in general. Why am I writing about existential crises? Aren’t I wasting time? Aren’t there more useful things I could be doing?
Are there? I don’t know. How important is it to scribble one’s tangled thoughts onto a page in the hopes of comprehending them? And can we find meaning in a world so un-forthcoming with any answers?
I may never know. Even so, God’s in control of this mess, and we can only trust that He is making something beautiful from it. If there are any answers out there, there’s no way we’ll find them alone.