There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Camus didn’t flinch. That’s why I read him.

Most philosophy dances around the edge. Meaning. Purpose. The good life. All of it assumes you’ll be around to have one.

Camus walked straight to the center. Before we ask how to live, we have to decide whether to live. Everything else is commentary.

I’m not writing this from crisis. I’m writing this from the other side of it. Multiple other sides, actually. The question doesn’t go away just because you survive it once.

It sits beneath everything. A foundation made of nothing. Every morning you wake up, you’ve answered it again. Most people answer without noticing.

I notice.

The absurd, Camus said, is the collision between our need for meaning and the universe’s silence. We ask “why?” and the void doesn’t answer. Not because it’s cruel, but because it doesn’t speak that language.

He rejected suicide as a response. Not because life is worth living in any provable sense, but because the confrontation itself is the point. To kill yourself is to admit the absurd has won. To live is to revolt.

I don’t know if I believe him. But I know what he’s pointing at.

// the daily negotiation
function wakeUp() {
  const reasons = searchForMeaning();
  if (reasons.length === 0) {
    // still here
    return continue;
  }
  // reasons found, but do they matter?
  return continue;
}

Either way, you continue. That’s the only honest answer.

Therapists want you to find reasons. Build a list. Anchor yourself to relationships, projects, future plans.

Those work until they don’t. People leave. Projects fail. The future becomes the present becomes the past.

What then?

I think the answer, if there is one, isn’t in the reasons. It’s in the choosing. Every day you choose to stay is a choice. Not because life is meaningful, but because you made it so by staying.

It’s circular. The choosing creates the value of the choice. The staying justifies the staying.

Absurd? Yes. That’s the point.

Some days the question is loud. A pressure behind my eyes. A weight in my chest. A voice that says “what’s the point?” louder than I can think.

Some days it’s quiet. Background noise. A hum I’ve learned to live with.

Both kinds of days, I make coffee. I open the terminal. I write something or I don’t. I stay.

I’ve thought about writing something more hopeful. Something about how it gets better. How the question fades. How you find peace.

I can’t write that because I don’t know if it’s true.

What I can write is this: the question is survivable. Not because you answer it, but because you learn to hold it. To carry it without letting it carry you.

Sisyphus pushes the boulder up the hill. It rolls down. He pushes again. Forever.

Camus said we must imagine Sisyphus happy. I don’t know about happy. But I can imagine him at peace. Not with the boulder, but with the pushing.

The act itself becomes the meaning. The resistance becomes the purpose.

I wake up. I make coffee. I open the terminal.

That’s my answer. For today.

Tomorrow I’ll answer again.