Feaden

About me:

I enjoy solitude... ******************************

The root cause of an existential crisis is not, in fact, the meaninglessness of life or the awareness of mortality. The real reason is being left alone all day with the absurd rules and burdens humanity has created, while there is nothing in life that brings genuine pleasure. It’s a kind of cost-benefit inconsistency. The crisis begins in childhood. It starts when you’re forced to listen to a subject you hate, play games with friends you don’t like, or listen to arguments between your parents you wish you hadn’t come home to. As you grow older, the problems grow with you. Things escalate, life becomes more unbearable — yet it offers you no joy in return. You start to wonder how others manage to find happiness in watching trash TV every day, wandering around aimlessly, looking for someone to have sex with, exhausting themselves over meaningless career goals, or buying things they don’t need. None of it feels like a satisfying enough reason to exist in this absurd world. The only reason you go on living is because you are a slave to that primal survival instinct you can’t defeat. You watch the world like a robot that fell from space — sometimes the moon, sometimes the stars — and you wonder if somewhere in the far reaches of the universe, there might be civilizations where existence is made more bearable. Your friends excitedly tell you how their weekends went. You nod as if you’re listening. Then you come across an article in a magazine about children starving in Eritrea, and suddenly feel guilty for the wine you drank. You grow disgusted with the world. Disgusted with yourself. With the friend still insisting on telling their weekend story. With the partner who wants to meet in the evening. With your parents, hurt because you didn’t call. With everything. Then the question returns: “Is it worth it?” And deep down, you already know the most rational answer. You just can’t bring yourself to admit it — not every morning, not every night. You are left empty inside. Neither days, nor months, nor even years can soothe that void.

Who I'd like to meet:

Every time I let someone in, I drifted further from myself. Human faces — fatigue masked by smiles. Hands reach out, words are spoken, promises made; but every touch carries a subtle rot. Most people are just noise trying to drown out their own emptiness. They don’t fear solitude — they fear themselves. Letting someone new into my life would be accepting another lie. Silence remains the most honest sentence ever spoken to me. And walls — they’ve proven sturdier than any human shoulder.