Be as painfully and shamelessly externally human as you can bear to be, and hope others feel emboldened to do so as well. Start everything and finish nothing. the perfect snapshot of a moment in time captures more than the most meticulous curation. Champion yourself and your ideals but don’t give into neglect or lose balance over your creations or how you walk through the world. Selfless work is good, creating is great, but do not trap yourself in a cave forever. Replenish your mana in between casting your creative spells by embarking on as many quests as possible. one must wander for many miles to make something with any meaning. Stay in motion, utilize effortless action and always evolve.

A rolling stone gathers no moss, and only gather moss when that is what you crave, but never let it tether you or your mind. To flow in balance with the waves of life is the ultimate goal. Be an unstoppable force, not an immovable object, because the waves will never stop, you always have to move eventually.

It was burnt down, crumpling at the edges like papers left out in the sun for far too long. I got poison ivy in the process of removing glass. It reaked of mold and meat, and the sense of neglect that comes with abandonment. Not to criticize the way of the wind ,as it swept through the holes, nooks and crannies like a miscreant wanting to be spoken to by his true name.

An occupation is a stipulation, one ripens weak, yet minds its medicine. It’s too cold

to sleep, or learn a lesson, the truth unfolds im every direction. music video

Hope only functions implicitly in Freud’s views of society, particularly in his notions regarding the irrationality of human nature, and the relationship between civilization and the individual. The basis of Freud’s beliefs is rather gloomy, describing much of existence as suffering, but he didn’t offer much hope for salvation, only if reason could triumph. He held a rather pessimistic view on human nature, rejecting that rationality was the main driving force of human behavior. He also concluded civilization served mainly to oppress the individual, he also knew that humans were not rational enough to exist without one, and the search for a perfect organization of human existence would prove fruitless. “Civilization is indeed a burden, but people must bear it, for the alternative is far worse.”(Perry, 317) He rejected the marxist notion that human nature is at its base good, and rather than evil being a product of society. He thus thought there was no hope for relief from suffering, if society were to be rearranged in a marxist manner. “For Freud, the socialists’ earthly utopia, indeed, the whole marxist system, was based on an illusion--a mistaken idealization of human nature.” (Perry, 319) He had little hope for humanity to be good, as he was well aware of, and feared the irrationality of nature, and thought the only hope for human nature lay in the conquering of the id, by the ego. “His famous words---”Where there is Id, there shall be Ego”---held out the hope that through reason , human beings could acquire the strength to dispel those irrationalities that misgovern their lives.” (Perry, 319) However, if we assume each of his beliefs regarding irrationality to be true, there is no hope for humanity, as rationality will never be able to conquer human irrationality.

Strangely enough, out of all the thinkers/writers discussed in this essay, Sartre’s ideology seems to provide the most hope for existence. Sartre’s brand of existentialism can be likened to both absurdism and nihilism, as characterized by the key tenets of Existentialism. Arguably, the most important points to be taken into consideration when assessing existentialism are, existence cannot be properly comprehended, and has no intrinsic value or meanings, and is inherently absurd in its nature. “Existence is essentially absurd. There is no purpose to our presence in the universe.” (Perry, 444) This notion is frightening, and even depressing at first, but it is in fact freeing. If there is no purpose to existence, no inherent guidelines to how we should live and attempt to achieve meaning, we are free to do whatever we please. “...we can give our life meaning. It is in the act of choosing freely from among different possibilities that the individual shapes an authentic existence.”(Perry 444) While Sartre believed in this freedom, and this freedom is certainly cause for hope, he also believed that this freedom was the source of our anxieties and suffering. As we lack an inherent essence, the choices that we make with our freedom constitute our essence, and this is an immense pressure. He famously said “For humans,, existence precedes essence.”(BBC Radio 4, 1:21) While we have much cause to hope due to this, one may also fail miserably in what they value at life, so the hope does not guarantee success.

The works of Kafka and Beckett both employ the concept of Hope in a very satirical way. The modern condition is anxiety inducing for the individual, who must strive to find their way in a world that cares not for them. The main concept of Beckett’s seminal play, “Waiting for Godot,” is that two characters continue to hope and wait for ultimate satisfaction in life, or some godly figure, characterized as “Godot.” As the play progresses, they attempt to leave many times, but keep getting pulled back into their struggle, only to be disappointed. This can be characterized as a critique of life, and the search for purpose that seems to dominate it. This search for meaning proves fruitless, as it does in life, yet they stay the course, due to foolish hope, although they are tempted to give up. “We’ll hang ourselves tomorrow. Unless Godot comes. And if he comes? We’ll be saved.” (Waiting for Godot, 84) They have given up all hope on life, yet still hold onto the belief that some ultimate satisfaction can be provided, although everything seems to prove otherwise. This hope is not reasonable, as there is a lack of intrinsic meaning in existence, but for the same reason, there is still plenty of reason to hope, as one can make anything that they choose to of this existence.

These ideas can be understood better when compared in the context of Kafka’s similar work, Before the Law, in which the main character waits outside a series of doorways, inhibited in his progress by a doorman. The doorman always rejects his attempts at progress, and concedes him no ground, even going so far as to refuse to give him hope; when he attempts to bribe the doorkeeper he accepts but is sure to note that his acceptance doesn’t mean he's going to be let in. “I am only taking it to keep you from thinking you have omitted anything.” (Kafka, 3) The doorman still, cruelly, allows for the man to have a morsel of hope. “The man thinks it over and then asks if he will be allowed in later. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not at the moment.”’(Kafka, 3) In reality, the doorman never has any intention of letting the man in, and this tale is a statement to hope. Hope results in the entrapment of the poor soul who attempts to reach the law, and causes him to waste his life away. Without hope, he could have left at any point, and could have strived to achieve something else with his life. This reflects Kafka’s views on hope and existence; waiting for satisfaction from the universe, or to be allowed to do something proves fruitless in the modern age. One must seize what they want if they truly want it, and be autonomous, rather than waste away in complacency with the forces that entrap them in patterns of inaction. The doorman hints at this concept with one of his statements to the protagonist. “If you’re so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto.”(Kafka, 3) As the protagonist nears death with the conclusion of the short story, this is once again hinted at, when the doorman says the gate exists only for that man. He always could have achieved it, perhaps if he had taken it into his own hands, but his complacency caused him to waste away.

Hope is an interesting concept, and the writers/thinkers Sartre, Freud, Beckett, and Kafka all dealt with it differently in their writings. The absence of hope is associated with deepest misery, but false hope is arguably worse for the soul. The works of Kafka and Beckett play with this concept of false hope and how it affects the individual, and stifles their growth as they give up their own agency. It is interesting to see how Sartre deals with hope, as his existentialist views are on the surface, some of the most depressing material, yet seem to provide the most means for hope, as they allow the most agency to the individual. Inversely, Freud seems to provide the least hope for existence, due to his critiques of human nature, and his arguments in regards to their own agency. Hope and agency are undoubtedly incredibly important aspects of the human condition.

A hot summer breeze, teasing and exciting her daily walk. Rust spills and abounds, a cacophony beneath the brutal sun. Staring at the ground, the sun beating heavy, as thoughts race. Absent-mindedly she starts crossing the street. There are plenty of things to do but very little time.

A to-do list longer than her arm, she is a captive of the daylight, attempting to assuage her hunger for brilliance. Has such a time already passed? Mozart started as a child, her teens and twenties have come and gone. Her brain lies heavy, caught between burnout and chronic fatigue as well as reminders of inadequacy. Attempts at mindfulness only go so far, accepting one’s self just gets harder and harder as one gets older.

She made it halfway across the road when it hit her. A holy realization she’d chased for so long. The endless pursuit led to no dream, no escape, no ephemeral stream. There couldn’t be heaven as the world we live in is so hellish. Each day is wasted with pursuit of material aims hindering liberation, but this realization was cut short with the screeching noise of a truck’s brakes failing as it turned the corner, following a collision course into her frail body.

The truck’s sole cargo was flowers, and the last thing she saw before fading away was a glimpse of dozens of roses flying in the air, covering her body as she lay there unconscious. The noises of the machinery that rendered her incapable swelled as her consciousness bled, and faded as she slipped away.

Now she stands in front of a door.

Looking through the doorway, she saw into many expansive rooms, with a multitude of doors, each guarded by a different doorman. The ones closest to her eyes she skeptically. “Are you sure you’re dead? You only look half dead.” “Dead?” she thought, What a concept. Life on Mars is a death in its own; arguably, any isolation is a death. Pushing a rock up the hill is death. Everything and nothing is death, so how can I accept that this is death? “I’m not,” she murmured, out of both disbelief and necessity. “You must be there,” the first doorman said. Her vision improved slightly, and she took in the massive figure that stood between her and the door. Not only was he hugely built, she then realized the figure in front of her resembled a tree more than a human, and was tethered to the door.

If you say so, she said, to the dismay of the doorman. The doorman replied, saying, “There are two choices you can make. You can either try your luck down my corridor and have the potential to reach endless bliss, or you can win your life back. If you fail, you get sent to a life of pain and agony, but if you choose not to attempt, you will be sent betwixt heaven and hell, to a painfully medium place. Nothing good happens there, but also nothing extraordinarily bad. Of the three, it is somehow less fo a life. Also I must warn you, there are two dozen doors after the one I guard, and each gets more difficult than the other. If you fail to pass through one of them you will either be sent to purgatory or be trapped here as a stone statue, repurposed, and serving as a guard against future attempts.“

Her hubris and humanity dictated her answer. To pass through the doors seemed extraordinary but how could she not imagine the possibility of existing as an exception? “I’ll do it,“ matter of factly, “how does one pass through the doors?”

The features of his face hardened, then loosened, and shifted. “You are free to pass through mine now, I am simply the gatekeeper and am meant to give you the option. But you must be patient and wise on your journey. “

She passes through.

The following room was a radiant white, so glorious that all that remained as a reminder of the room she passed through before was the shape of the door. The new room was empty, and there was no doorman. Over the door in a multitude of dialects were enscribed leering figures who seemed to question the brave.” Are you sure? There is no going back after this.” Upon closer examination of the room, she saw a notebook. On it there was a table half filled out. It was titled ”Why should you live,” and had categories open for hobbies, people, goals, and failures to be fixed. She started filling it out and then saw the door was starting to close. She ran and barely slid through the doorway before it closed.

The next room had a giant chess set. She finished filling out the journal and then dropped it, assuming the position of the queen. Appealing to the universe or any greater power is pointless, and serves only to muddy the process. The battle must be fought more directly, and in taking the Queen’s mantle, It occurred to her that this journey was most likely modeled after her person - she was a shy and humble person who never would have accepted such a role in her previous life. And while the pathway to success through appealing through the notebook was questionable at best, the alternative seemed guaranteed. The game was partially in play already, the kingside bishop was overextended and the king itself was cornered; it was mate in one, by virtue of lack of escape. She boldly lept to victory, resulting in subtle, haunting fanfare. This can’t be that hard, she thought, as she passed through the door to the other room.

The other room was outside, somehow, but limbo never makes any sense anyway. It was a bus stop, and she waited patiently for the next bus to come. She waited hours, as bus after bus drove by, passing her seemingly invisible corpse. Every time she asked when the bus was coming, the predictive timer went up. It had started at 5 minutes and was now at an hour. It was seemingly impossible not to ask, as it seemed as if the bus would never arrive. Everything will continue without you, and the means of deliverance slip through your grasp if pursued through ordinary means. Growing impatient, she found a button that requested a bus to stop. Instantly, she was transported to the next room. Patience is a virtue, but we must also always stay alert, rather than blindly subjecting ourselves to endless patience.

The next room was the most visually surprising of the rooms thus far. As she entered it, she realized quickly there was no gravity in the room, and she quickly floated to the top, like a newly filled-up balloon. How different from her former life. The walls were covered in different styles of trim work, starting in more ancient Greco-Roman styles, and developing into the soft dark wood that characterizes modern minimalism. As she floated across the ceiling, she noticed the door was on the ground, seemingly out of reach due to her gravitational pull. Her body was detached from the current struggle, and the room contained many items as well, some useless and out of reach, and some of seemingly magnificent purpose. How helpful or necessary a tool anything could be, however, is strange to consider when there is no conduit for liberation other than one’s self. The room was so disorienting, and all logic ceased to exist, as she struggled to focus on the end goal. There was a large piece of black charcoal that she assumed she could use to propel herself, without any reason to think so. After a slight hiccup with flame, almost resulting in grave error, she realized that the hardest part of this room would be to propel herself towards the door without getting stuck in midair limbo, as that would maroon her already lost body. Fastening the charcoal to the ceiling and a rope, she attempted to make her way to the door. It occurred more easily than expected, but the door was not open.

She saw now that it said, “To pass, you must trust, and surrender.” Realization hit, and she decided to hang herself. Even though it was zero gravity, the rope around her neck started to deprive her of oxygen. Loud machinery noises began to swell in the room, as her hearing started to fade away and her body began to twitch. “You pass,” a loud voice boomed, and with a shock, she fell to the floor, seizing, ripping the rope from around her neck. The floor opened and swallowed her carcass.

The next rooms consisted of similar paradox, disillusionment, and confusion, although to a lesser extent. With each one, she longed to live less and less, but feared the pain of being eternally condemned.

One was a series of mirrors, with false reflections, making it impossible to determine when you are going. She struggled here for days before finally resorting to a childish genocide of destruction, resulting in her liberation.

She approached the final room.

Whereas the other rooms had sported unique and complex, otherworldly nature, this final room consisted of blank white walls, so blank you quickly found yourself getting lost in the space. And whereas the others had lacked doormen for the most part, here she was kept company by another figure, a short, brutish, stump of a man, who looked as mean as he did ugly. The only item left in the room was a gun with one bullet. “It’s your choice,” he said, and a cartoonish bullseye that dotted his face manifested itself in her eyes. “You can shoot yourself or shoot me, but you need to pass through this door to reach your deliverance.” He went on, “If you choose to shoot me, your soul is not ready for what is next; you must shoot yourself to prove that. However, if you shoot yourself, you have no way of passing through the door. You have five minutes to decide what to do.”

“I have to do both,” she quickly thought. She ran toward the doorman, who asked if she had decided. “Yes, open the door and I shall make my choice.” He obliged, and she quickly put her finger to the trigger, the gun to her head, and her head to his; simultaneously blowing both of their brains out.

Everything went black.

She awoke in a room where an old man with a beard so long it seemed far too easy to trip over, and quite hazardous, was talking to her.

“You have made it,” he muttered, “but where will you go now?”

“Home,” she said quietly and elegantly, although she was mentally tormented.

“Are you sure,'' he pressed, and she returned an answer of approval.

“I will send you back,” he said, “but there's something you should know.

This is heaven, and you made it here, but you were not coming from the real world. The hell you died in is the only purgatory that exists. This was to test you, as you were eligible for parole, and a place away from the flames, but it seems you are not ready yet, as only a hellish creature would choose to go back to that world.”

She started to protest, but he heard none of it, and finished saying, “I wish you luck the next time around, I shall now send you back.”

She awoke in the street, with the taste of burnt asphalt on her tongue, remembering nothing of the encounter but feeling lucky to have survived the car accident. She was lucky, or so she thought, as she could now resume her life of monotonous misery. The bitter smell of roses and the prickling of a thousand thorns teased this realization, and she remembered the existence of her epiphany, but it escaped her now. The somber rush of life hit her, but it wasa facsimile. Relief rushed into her limbs, but was not fully realized as she struggled to remember. Liberated into the ultimate freedom of triumph of survival, she was trapped; she would never believe in heaven, for as long as she was in purgatory.