It's a bit quieter than usual at the cyberpunk apocalypse house right now. Two of our roommates are out of town, and in truth I'm the only one awake here.
I've been sick, so I've contented myself to doing some minor work on the house (killing mold, moving compost, etc.) and, of course, working on my book.
I hope to have the text in good sorts when my health returns and I bicycle to Washington D.C..
But even if we walk on a lazy summer day, the world sprints around us. It can't be helped.
Earlier in the evening Sara brought home an interview of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone De Beauvoir on DVD from the library. Ross was excited. "Sartre's my favourite philosopher," he said. "I think."
I was also excited, because I didn't know a damn thing about either of them. So, the three of us watched it together huddled on the couch in front of the little TV. It made an impression on me. I'll have to read them, and about them. I think I'll start with Sartre, for no reason other than the fact that I'm slightly more drawn by him.. slightly more so than his counterpart.
Perhaps what struck me about the duo, was in their interview I seemed to find a simple answer for that question that plagues so many writers, myself especially: Why write? Why do anything really?
"Our job is to find meaning," said Sartre.
In a universe devoid of purpose isn't the search for meaning the only reasonable undertaking? Without meaning isn't all other action hollow?
I think I will try to find meaning first, then I will do the rest.
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